Moving On
by Dex1
Summary: In response to ALL P.L. Wynter's challenges so far. The demon's dead, Sam's set on returning to school. So where does that leave Dean? Finally Complete!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: Okay, i don't know why I decided this was a good idea, it's probably not, but I just did discover P. L. Wynter's challenges and I wanted to one but couldn't decide which. Anyway, I figured what would be a real challenge would be to put them all thus far into one story. Yeah, so we'll just how that works out. Anywho, takes place after the death of our most despised demon and is therefor somewhat AU, also because some of the challenges kind of require it to be AU, like having a childhood similar to Max's.

**Dean's POV:**

"Dude, stop."

"What?"

"Stop."

"No, I heard you. Stop what?"

Stop what? Stop what! Can he really be that clueless? I peel my eyes from the road just long enough to check, size him up and see if he's screwing with me. He's not. "Stop breathing through your nose."

He stares at me for a minute; I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. Then he bursts out laughing, the little bitch. "Oh my God," he says. The sound of his cackling grates even more than the nose whistle and I can feel all the blood rush to my head. I grit my teeth to keep from saying anything and tighten my grip on the wheel. Just focus on the car, Dean. She'll get you through. Feel it? Feel her strength? Feel her love? Who needs human interaction anyway? Well, some human interaction is a good thing, a necessary thing. Hey I love my car, but it's just not right to _love_ your car. What the hell am I going on about? Damn it, Sam! Now you're _literally_ driving me crazy!

"So, how much further?" He's still laughing, trying to hide it, ducking his head, but I know better. Lately, man, I never thought I'd say this, but I miss the good old moody hangdog Sam.

"Not far," I manage, even though my jaw still feels clenched. "Maybe an hour."

"And who are these people again?"

"Friends."

"Of yours?" Something about the way he says it – what's the word? – incredulous. Yeah, see, college boy, I know stuff.

"Yeah, friends of _mine_. What of it?"

"Nothing. Nothing. I just didn't realize that you actually had any friends, that's all." Okay, so maybe I can't blame him for thinking that, but come on, does everything have to be punctuated by Sammy giggles? Punk. "Come on, Dean, I'm just kidding." Yeah, right. "Dean?" See if I care. "Hey." I'm not listening. I'm not listening. "Dude! What is your problem?"

"My problem?" Ha, how's that for _incredulous_? "What's _my_ problem?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean, seriously man, we're supposed to be on vacation here. Why don't you loosen up a little?"

You know those moments you have in life where someone says something and it's like a switch flips in your brain? And you start thinking about how ridiculous this all is? Sammy's telling _me_ to loosen up, that's crazy. Yeah, well, this isn't one of those moments. "Loosen up?"

"Dean, we're on our way to Vegas for crying out loud. Las Vegas. And we're staying with _your_ friends. And this was all your idea in the first place."

"My idea?"

"You were totally psyched a few weeks ago."

"Totally psyched?"

"Why are you repeating everything I'm saying?"

I can't help it. I know that look, the sound of his voice, pure pissy Sammy. I feel my lips curl up a little. Just a little. And I can't help but piss him off some more. "Why are _you_ repeating everything _I'm_ saying?" I mumble it, but he hears, lets out an angry sigh.

"That doesn't even…never mind."

See, that's the Sam I know and love. He slumps down in his seat and I can tell, without even looking, that he's got his arms folded across his chest, his face in full pout mode. I laugh.

"Unbelievable," he grumbles.

"What?"

"You're like freaking Bipolar."

"Yeah, whatever." I squint out at the road ahead of us. It's actually pretty cloudy, witch I don't get. I mean, this is the desert. Nothing but desert. Still, it's like the sand sucks up all the sunlight while it can and spits it back up when the clouds come out. There's a lovely image. Point is, it might be cloudy, but I have to squint like crazy anyway. And it's starting to give me a headache.

"I know what this is about, Dean." I just can't get a break. Maybe it's not the light that's making my head hurt. "It's not that bad. I mean, it won't be…you know…like last time."

Last time? Oh, you mean when you took off and left me alone with Dad for four years while you partied and studied and fell in love and had a life. Yeah, it won't be like that at all. So fucking clueless.

"Dean, I'm serious." I don't know if he's waiting for me to say something or not, but I'm sure as hell not gonna. He shifts in his seat, I hear the rustle of his jacket, the squeak of the leather, but everything else is quiet. The desert. Out here, even with the engine's hum and Sam's breathing, the buzz of the tape deck and whisper of music, there's still nothing but silence. It takes him awhile, but eventually he starts up again. "Look, we talked about this. After…everything…I told you I wanted to go back. Dad even said – "

"I don't care about what Dad said." It's amazing how much there's _not_ out here, how much nothing there can be in one place.

"Things are finally better, Dean. With all of us. They might not be good, but…Dad's getting better…"

"Dad doesn't even know what _better_ means, Sammy. Just because he said he'd clean up his act – "

"He's doing the whole rehab thing, that's something." Yeah, something. But it ain't much. Just because someone says they want to turn their life around doesn't mean they can, or will. Dad's been a drunk going on 20 years. A month in rehab's not gonna fix that. Giving up the booze…it's not gonna erase the last two decades. It won't help us get back those four years without Sammy, those years that were lost because in a drunken haze _he_ knocked his son's head into a wall and told him if he ever came back he'd kill him. It won't heal that lovely little scar on my back from his belt buckle, or the one Sam's thigh from his cigarette butt.

It won't bring Mom back. And, let's face it, that's really the only thing he ever wanted anyway. The only reason he ever started hunting and training us to do the same. And a couple years into it all, when it finally seemed to click that even if he did find the thing that killed her, and killed it too, she would still be six feet under, well that's the only reason he started going on his pathetic little benders. So what, the demon's dead. Yea. But so's Mom, still. So what reason does he really have to stay sober?

"He loves us, Dean. He didn't always show it…hell, sometimes he showed the exact opposite. But he knows, and he feels bad, guilty. He's ready to change." Man, I hate when he does that. It's like he can read my mind. Gives me the creeps.

"Whatever."

"I'm not saying we should forget about everything, or forgive…I don't know."

"Sam, I'm not talking about this." Case closed.

"Well, Dad's not even the point anyway."

"Oh, good." Why can't he ever just let things drop? "What is the point then?" Why can't I?

"In two weeks I'm moving back to California. I'm going to law school. I'm gonna talk to my friends and make new ones, and get on with my life."

"Congratulations."

"I'm going to be happy."

"I'm happy for you," I say, maybe a little bit too sarcastically.

"I wish you would be." Yeah, well, I wish I _could_ be.

* * *

We hit the outskirts of Vegas around six and the sun, which finally came out, was starting that pre-sunset golden glowing thing it always does out here. I remember it well. In another hour it'll turn so orange it's almost red. Then, an hour after that the burning red will somehow shoot out layers of purple through the sky. Then it'll slowly sink away, leaving nothing but bitter cold black and a sprinkling of stars. Yeah, the desert. I wonder if it's kind of like this in Palo Alto. 

We made it all the way here without bringing up anymore "uncomfortable" subjects, which, really, was all I could ask for. But still, Sam refused to sit still and keep quiet. I would have thought that after shutting him down about Dad he'd be all sulky, but no, apparently he just can't help but be giddy. Damn him.

"What about the Jackalope?"

"The what?"

"Jackalope." He says it like I'm supposed to know what the hell he's talking about, like I'm some kind of moron for not knowing what a jack-a-whatever is. When I look his way and he sees I'm serious, seriously out of the loop anyway, he shakes his head and laughs. "You know, a cross between a jack rabbit and an antelope. A Jackalope."

How that could happen I have no idea, but the image of a rabbit and a deer, I just have a feeling, will be stuck in my head for a long time. "What about it?"

"You think they're real?"

God, I hope not. "Don't know. Hey," I turn to him, suddenly remembering something, "are you talking about those creepy-ass stuffed rabbits people have with antlers glued to their heads?"

"Yeah…Jackalopes."

Now it's my turn to shake my head and laugh. "Man, you're an idiot."

"What, stranger things have happened. It's possible."

"Yeah, well you just keep your eyes peeled for one. Let me know what you see. Maybe you should be on the lookout for Leprechauns too while you're at it."

"Actually, Leprechauns probably are real, well, as real as any other creatures from Celtic mythology anyway. You know, fairies, brownies, Lady of the Lake."

"Dude, you're so gay."

"Whatever man," he says, a lift in his voice. I pull into the long circular driveway, which I don't remember them having the last time I was here – of course that was, what, almost four years ago? – and put the car in park. "This is it?" He looks up at the big old house and I can tell what he's thinking.

"They remodeled. Did a bunch of renovations. Wanted something…different." A Victorian-looking house in the middle of the desert was definitely different. "When Sal decided to open a Bed and Breakfast, she said only this _look_ would work."

"A good old fashioned Bed and Breakfast in the middle of nowhere just outside Las Vegas. Bet they get a ton of business."

"Enough that they can afford to comp our stay, little brother," I say, getting out of the car. As soon as I shut the door I hear a familiar voice saying hi, see a familiar girl raise her arm in a wave.

"That's Sal?" I wave back and look at Sam just in time to catch the smirk on his face. "And just how good of _friends_ were you?"

Hey, I get it, it's not like I never thought about it, I mean, she's hot, and only a couple of years older than me. But still… "Dude, she's married."

"Dean," she says in that light Southern accent as she makes her way toward us. Everything about her is sweet and southern. Even after being out here for almost five years, she's kept her accent, her long soft, wavy hair, her impractical strappy heels and flowing skirts. She throws her arms around me and hugs me tight and I can even smell the south on her, Magnolia. "I'm so glad y'all could make it. Oh, I just feel like it's been forever since we've seen you!" she says before finally letting go. "And you must be Sam." She charges around the car and pulls him in for a hug too. Whatever she says to him is muffled when she leans into his neck, but I can make out something about feeling like she knows him already. "Come on," she says as she grabs the duffel from him, "Let's get you settled."

The house is nothing like I remembered it. Nothing. When I came here last it was a mess. They had just bought the place, Sally and Jake, and were getting started on all the renovations when weird things started happening. It was pretty typical haunting stuff, flickering lights, cold spots, sound of footsteps. Then they started seeing things, apparitions. Sal, being the gossip she is – and man, is that girl a gossip – told everyone about it. Some stupid little ghost web site thing ran a story about it, about how they might have to give up the house and their plans for a business, and all the money they already sunk in the place, because they were worried about the safety of their daughter. Turns out that was only partially true. Sally never thought they were in danger at all, but that's because she's a glass half-full kind of gal.

Anyway, I came, I saw, I exorcised or whatever. There were a few ghosts _un_living in the house, a kid and his mom who were killed by some wannabe mobster back in the forties, and the mobster guy himself. Sal still probably thinks they were totally harmless, but once she found about what really happened, she was more than happy to see the killer get sent to Hell. At least that's where I assume he went, although I sometimes wonder.

"Where's Jake?" I ask, interrupting her tour. With Sal, if you don't step up and but in, you'll never be able to get a word in. I learned that while I stayed to help with all the construction. Three months. It was a long time to be any one place, but they paid me and gave me free room and board. And more than that, there was no trying to work with Dad, no trying not to miss Sammy.

"He ran out to get some groceries, should be back anytime." She turns to Sam. "My husband. He took our Callie with him, had to. She's quite a handful, sometimes you just have to get that girl out of the house and hope you can exhaust her enough that she'll finally just collapse and…stop." She laughs, a light almost high-pitched chuckle, and both Sam and I can't help but smile.

"Callie's your daughter?" he asks as we make our way upstairs. Again he reaches for the bag Sal's struggling with, but she won't let him have it.

"And owner of all this mess." On the landing she kicks a stuffed lion out of the way and down the hall. "Sorry about that."

"Not at all. It's been a while since we've been in a…home."

"Oh, well, it certainly is that. Lived in, we'll say." She opens a door and walks in, throws the duffel on the bed and smacks her hands together. "Well, Sam, this is your room. You've got a garden view. See." We move to the window and look down. They've built a little patio surrounded by some patches of grass and flowers, a few trees. They must have to water it like ten times a day out here. "And there's the hot tub. Just wait 'til it gets dark," she almost whispers to him, "it's heavenly."

"Thanks Sal."

"You just get yourself all settled in, Sweetheart. And you," she says as she grabs my arm, "let's see if we can't find some place to stash you."

"Do I get a garden view too?"

"Not a chance."

* * *

I didn't get a great view, but I did get my own bathroom, so who am I to complain? Sal left me to unpack, but not without first informing me that I looked like crap, which seemed, I guess because of her drawl, more concerned than insulting. But she didn't push, she just told me supper'd be ready in an hour and I should come on down then. So I did. And now I'm sitting here sandwiched between a six-year-old girl and Sam, who with his new upbeat outlook on life, kind of reminds of a six-year-old girl anyway. 

"You need another beer?" I nod to Jake and hand him my empty bottle, wait for him to come back with a nice new cold one. Sam gives me a look, a do-you-really-think-you-should-be-having-another-drink kind of look. But I ignore him. Hey, he's the one who said this was supposed to be a vacation. He leans over me and talks to Callie, maybe because he likes kids – and she is a cute kid – or maybe just to get in my way and on my nerves. It's hard to tell.

"So is Callie short for anything?"

Before she can respond, Sal chimes in with, "Carolina. See, I'm from South Carolina originally, don't know if you could tell. So I wanted to name her after something that reminded me of home. Jake shot down Magnolia and Charlene, which was my grandmother's name – Charlene, not Magnolia – but he okayed Carolina, just as long as we didn't call her Carol. Why was that, dear?"

"Old girlfriend."

"Right, right, Carol was an old girlfriend. Didn't want to remind him of that. So, anyway, we dropped the South, obviously, and just started calling her Callie for short. Sometimes Cal."

"Like her mom," Sam says with a smile, even though his eyes are still on me. I look him straight in those damn puppy dog eyes and take a long swig of my fresh beer. He turns and shakes his head, so disapproving.

"I remember you," the kid next to me says. When I don't respond she pokes me in the side and almost makes me drop my bottle. I look at her. "I remember you."

"Oh yeah," I say, humoring her. She was practically a baby last time I saw her.

"You put bunnies on my wall." I cock my head toward her and smile; she's right, I did. How old do you have to be to remember stuff like that? Not too old, I guess, after all, I can still remember making cookies with my mom, and her pushing me on the swings. I can still remember my dad tucking me in, no trace of alcohol on his breath. I can still remember, though barely, a time when I wasn't terrified of the dark, when I knew that even if there was something in my closet, my mom and dad would protect me from it no matter what, always.

"Bunnies?" I hear Sam's voice and the images in my head, the memories, all disappear, gone completely. I wonder if they were really memories at all, maybe just wishful thinking.

"Oh yeah," Jake says trying not to laugh. "Dean put up all the wallpaper in the house." He covers his mouth with the back of his hand but the giggles – and there really is no other word for them but that, giggles – spill out. "He was such a shitty carpenter. Couldn't even drive a nail in straight."

"Hey, I wasn't that bad."

"Oh honey," Sal says looking at me, "you were using a nail gun." And everybody laughs. But to be fair, those aren't the kind of guns I was trained to use. I should just be glad they aren't mentioning the saw fiasco. "Oh, oh, remember when he sawed through the drywall?" And there it is.

"Yeah, how _did_ you do that, man?"

"I got skills," I say and quickly down the rest of my beer.

There's a chance that this may just be the longest _vacation_ of my life.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Callie's POV:**

_One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand_.

KA-BOOM!

Doesn't make any sense. Why would the angels bowl so late at night? Don't they know that people are trying to sleep? Don't they care?

And why do they have to be so loud about it? If I made that much noise I'd get grounded for sure. Stupid. God should ground them. Or put them in time out. I got time out just for coloring on the wall. And it was pretty too.

More lightening. _One one-thousand, two one-thousand…_Wait, is it closer when I count more, or closer when I only get to…

BA-BOOM!

I. Can't. Sleep!

Ugh.

_Scratch, scratch, scraaatch._

Oh no. He's back.

_Scurry, scurry, scratch._

"Um, mister…thing? Could you please go away?" Last time when I asked nice, he left. I think. Maybe he just got real quiet. "Please."

_Tap, tap, tap. Scraaaatch._

What's he doing under there? Wait, no, don't wanna know.

"Please leave me alone."

Now it's raining. It never rains. Not a lot. It's raining a lot.

Maybe he has to be here cause if he left he might get all wet. And maybe he can't hide under any of the other beds because there's strangers in them. Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he's scared of thunder.

_Scurry, scurry._

Sometimes when he's real loud I can cover my head up with my blanket and then I can't hear him as good. But it's hot. If I get all the way under the covers I might die. So hot.

_Scratch._

Maybe he's building something. I got a lot of stuff under there. I bet there's a lot he could build. Maybe he's making something really cool. Like a little house. Or a bed. Maybe he's making a bed under my bed so he can sleep. Cause I wouldn't want to sleep under there. Not comfy. But he can't sleep under there because if he did he'd be sleeping because it's nighttime and time to sleep. So if he doesn't sleep, he doesn't need a bed, right?

Maybe he doesn't wanna make a bed. Maybe he wants _my_ bed. My bed's pretty comfy. Once Daddy even fell asleep when he was reading to me and he said it was because it was just the most comfiest bed and he couldn't help it. Maybe _he_ heard him and now he wants my bed!

_Tap, tap, bang! Scratch, scratch._

So far. The door's so, so far away. If I run…no, jump. No, I can't jump that far. I gotta run, all the way to Mommy and Daddy's room. Run. But quiet, real quiet. 'Cause maybe he won't hear me then. Yeah, okay. Okay.

Slow and quiet. One foot. Okay, and…he's touching me!

He's got me!

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Sam's POV:**

I'll be honest, I don't really know what to do with time off. When I was a kid we never took any vacations. I mean we traveled, yeah, saw some sights and all, but vacation? Never. The spring break just after Jess and I moved in together we went to Sonoma Valley. Wine country, that was exciting. It was supposed to be relaxing. We were supposed to sleep 'til noon and then tour vineyards and then get drunk on good wine and make love all night. But I just can't sleep in past, well, eight. And leisurely strolls aren't really my thing. Neither is wine. The lovemaking didn't exactly go as planned either since I was less than cooperative with her other plans. She yelled about me being too Type A, said I didn't know how to relax. And I sat there and took it because, really, she was totally right. Like I said, I don't know how to _vacation_.

At some point we're supposed to head to the strip and party. Of course, I'm not too great at that either. I can see it now. I'll lose all my money in about the first ten minutes and Dean'll get wasted and accidentally marry a stripper. Actually, that scenario might turn out to be kinda entertaining.

Anyway, I guess my inability to just – how would Dean put it? – chill? I guess that's why I'm sitting here at seven in the morning watching cartoons with a six-year-old. Not that she's the worst company I could have.

"I don't get it."

"What?" she asks me, her face all scrunched up, mouth full of Pop Tart.

"These cartoons." I don't really know what it is we're watching, but whatever it is has a lot of flash and not too much substance. "I mean, whatever happened to Transformers or ThunderCats?" Seriously? Did I just say that? She swallows hard and looks at me like I'm crazy. I stifle a laugh and turn away. "So," I say to change the subject, "was that you I heard screaming bloody murder last night?"

"Bloody murder?"

"It's just an expression."

"Oh." She sinks back into the couch and lets out a long sigh. "Yeah," she says wearily and I try not to laugh. She reminds me of a resigned old man. "There's a mad scientist living under my bed."

Huh? "A what now?"

"Mad scientist." She looks at me and I look at her, and that's how we sit for I don't know how long, just studying each other. I'm not too sure what she's picking up from me, but I'm getting a definite 'weird kid' vibe. Not the kind of weird kid that spells trouble or anything, just the kind that never talks to other kids at school but always apologizes – out loud – to furniture when she walks into it. It's just a feeling.

"Hey, you two. Whatcha doing?" We both glance up at the same time and watch as Dean flops into a nearby chair, leans over and grabs a handful of Lucky Charms out of the box. "Ooo, Toad Patrol," he says, looking at the TV. "I didn't know this was still on."

Ladies and Gentlemen, my brother, the 27-year-old cartoon aficionado. "Shouldn't you be in bed still? You know it's not quite noon."

"Sammy please, I've been on the road with you for a year. Staying in bed 'til seven or eight is like sleeping half the day away. You've ruined me."

So true. "So sorry."

He shoves another handful of cereal in his mouth before offering the box to Callie. And then she sends it my way. And I hand it back to Dean. And we all watch what is apparently a cartoon about toads, which does actually explain a lot. And we eat Lucky Charms until my fingers graze the bottom and come up with nothing but crumbs. "So, what's on the agenda today, kids?" he asks as soon as the commercial break starts. Callie and I look at each other and both shrug. "Wow, you two are just a barrel of laughs, ya know that?"

"Well, what do you suggest?" I can't believe I just asked that.

He rolls back his eyes and purses his lips like some kind of idiot. People are supposed to be able to think without looking like a caricature for crying out loud. Of course Callie laughs at his bizzaro expression. I wonder if that's why he's doing it, just to amuse her. I wonder if that's why he always does stuff like that around me. At one time it did make me laugh, and, really, that was the time I needed laughter most.

"You know anything about mad scientists?" I hear myself say, not sure why. He looks at me like I'm nuts but Callie explains.

"I have one living under my bed."

"A mad scientist?"

"Yeah, I don't know what he does under there, but it sure does bug me."

"How so?" Aw, man, I knew I shouldn't have said anything. Now he's got that look, that we-may-be-on-to-something-here look. Damn it.

"Oh, you know," she says, pulling her legs up under her, "always scratching and making noise and stuff."

"Under your bed." She nods. "What about in the walls, any scratching there?"

"Uh, how would he get in the walls?" She throws her hands up in a 'duh' gesture. Man, they learn that young these days. Remember when little kids used to just be cute and sweet? Dean actually looks genuinely hurt for a sec, having his intelligence questioned by a first grader. But as usual, he recovers quickly. Or at least he pretends to.

"Callie, have you ever seen this mad scientist?" he asks, and she shakes her head no.

"But he grabbed my foot last night."

"He did?"

"Yeah, when I got out of bed, he reached out from under it and grabbed me." Here's the thing with kids, they have super active imaginations. "I got away though." One minute they're pushing their imaginary friend on a swing, the next they're serving tea to a stuffed dolphin. "He had really little hands, so it's not like he could hold on." And to them, that friend is actually talking to them, telling them 'higher, higher', and that dolphin slurped down every last drop of tea.

"Huh." But that doesn't mean they're real.

"Callie, why don't you go see if there's any more cereal?" She scurries off and I turn to Dean. "She had a dream."

"A recurring dream?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"And this dream was going on while she was climbing out of bed?"

"Dean, come on, man. Kids have things living under their beds all the time."

"Yeah, I know."

"No, I mean, they imagine it all the time. It's make believe."

"Come on, Sammy, you really believe that?" Uh, yeah. When I was Callie's age and I told Dad there was something in my closet…there wasn't anything in my closet. I know because one night I held on super tight to the gun he gave me, and I looked. Nothing. Hey, I admit, a lot of this stuff is real, but not most. Even Dean knows that. "I'm gonna check it out."

He gets up and heads for the stairs just as Callie enters with a box of Cheerios. "You're going in unarmed?" I ask, and he turns around, shoots me a dirty look.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna go have a talk with that mad scientist of yours."

"Really?" she asks, her face splitting with what could only be described as glee. "Can I come?" He says nothing but waves her on and they bound up the stairs together.

I guess I shouldn't be angry, or surprised. So Dean's always looking for the supernatural in the everyday, so what? It's his job, or it was. So he, apparently, doesn't know how to relax and have a carefree vacation either. Big deal.

But then again it kind of is. I mean, what happens when he actually finds something, something maybe he can't handle, and I'm gone, and so is Dad? What happens when he goes looking where he shouldn't and no one's there to get his back? What happens when he's all alone?

Back in that asylum, back when Ellicot, possessed him or whatever, he said some things to me. Some not nice things. I know it wasn't really him. Not really. But what he said, about me being a selfish asshole, and an ungrateful jerk, that still came from a place of truth. Just because Ellicot made him say it, doesn't mean he wasn't thinking it. Truth is, as soon as those words came out of his mouth I knew they were valid. And I care, I do. And I'm sorry, really I am. But I just can't be his backup my whole life.

I know he knows that. I know he knows I want more for myself. But I want more for him too. I want him to be happy. I want him to find a niche in life. I want him to _have_ a life. He's my big brother and he always will be, but, man, why can't he let himself be more than just that? As scared as I am that he might get himself into trouble hunting alone, what scares me most, honestly, is thinking about him being on his own at all. Because, really, I don't think Dean has a clue who he is without me.

_A/N: Don't know if I mentioned this, but I truly thrive on reviews, just call me needy. _


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews! A quick note, some ppl were confused by the whole Ellicot possessing Dean thing...that was part of the first challenge (what if Dean was the one possessed instead of Sam?) , I just didn't want to break the narrative by doing a whole flashback thingy. But, yeah, I could see how it might have been confusing. Although, a great big woohoo for Catalyst for figuring it out! And to respond to Ty's post...yup, eventually the boys will hit the strip. But first, some fluff.

**Dean's POV:**

It's probably nothing. Really. Sammy's right, kids have active imaginations. Totally. I mean, what could it be anyway? Sal and Jake know what to look for, or listen for, in the way of ghosts. I told them all about being on the lookout for flickering lights or cold spots or…sounds of scratching. Yeah, yeah, could be something.

Maybe the kid's attracted some kind of poltergeist. Just hasn't fully manifested yet. Or even a demonic presence. Huh. I know how to test for that in a person, you know, like with possession and all, but under a bed? I wonder if Sam knows.

"Hey, Sammy!" Nothing. I lean out the door and look over the railing. He's still sitting in front of the TV, the bum. Looking confused too. Dude, they're cartoons, what could you possibly not understand? Kids who can't even wipe their own snotty noses understand them. Babies who crap themselves, hell, freaking vegetables laying in the…vegetable ward at the hospital get it. So sad. "Sammy!"

He looks up at me and snorts. "Busy!" Jerk.

Ah, well, screw it. I think I can handle a little scratching under the bed on my own. Now then…what else could it be? Demon's a maybe. We'll put poltergeist on hold right now. Something small. Like a Leprechaun.

"Why are you laughing?"

Too many Lucky Charms. "Just thinking about something funny."

"What?"

"Nothing, kid. Just some joke I heard."

"What kind of joke?" What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Hey, witches, could be witches. Tiny, tiny witches. Lucky they never set her bed on fire with their tiny little bubbling cauldron. "What kind of joke?" Well, she's insistent.

"Grown up joke. You wouldn't understand." I turn away and bend down, get on my hands and knees and…was that just a sigh, an _indignant_ little sigh? I shake my head and try to ignore her.

"I have a joke, you wanna hear?" Not really. "Two mushrooms walk into a bar – "

"What do you know about bars?"

"I know what they are. Duh, we have cable." I shake my head and get lower, lift up the ruffly thing on the bed and try to get a peek. "Anyway," she says all annoyed, "two mushrooms walk into a bar. And one mushroom turns…wait, no. _One_ mushroom…" Oh God, now I know why this kid's bugging me so much, she's Sammy, just midgeterized.

"Do you know where a flashlight is, Callie?" She looks at me funny for a minute, like I just asked her if she knew how juggle knives or eat fire or something. Man, I always wanted to learn how to eat fire. Then she moves past me and grabs a little pink flashlight off her desk, hands it to me and starts up again.

"And he asks the lady to dance and she says no and he says, 'why not, I'm a fun guy'." Good Lord, does she have some crap under here. "Get it?" Clothes, like a dozen balled up socks. "I'm a fun guy. A fungi. Cause he's a mushroom." A doll. Eww, no, just the head of a doll. Weirdo. "Do you even know what a mushroom is?" And what the hell is that? "Hello!"

"What?" Ow! Stupid bed, not moving when I jerk up my head. Dude, that hurt. "What?" I ask again, looking at the little girl with her hands on her hips. She's raising her eyebrow at me like she expecting something, so I shoot her the same expression.

"Were you even listening?"

"No, sorry," I say, rubbing my head.

"It's not nice to ignore people." Just what I need from a kid who keeps severed heads under her bed, a lesson in morals.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she sighs. "Did you see him?"

"Nah, nothing."

"I think he might be invisible." Or he might just be buried alive under all this crap.

"You think?" She shrugs and gets down with me, looks under but comes back up shrugging again. "Well," I say, reaching my arm back in and grabbing hold of what I hope is a sock, "maybe if we clear some of this stuff out we can get a better look." I start sweeping things out and she moves around the floor collecting them.

"Hey, my sandal," she says all cheery.

"Let me guess, you've been looking for that?" She nods and I can't help but smile at how excited she is over a damn shoe. But I guess that's how it is with lost things. Even when it's something small, even when you've moved on, bought a new pair or whatever. Even if you forgot all about that lost…shoe, as soon as you find again you can't help but be relieved. Like a piece of your world just fell back into place.

"See him yet?"

I can't see a damn thing. "Nope." How did I get roped into this anyway? Cleaning out a kid's room? This is…what the…

_SCREEEEEEEEEECH!_

Oh, fuck! _That_ was definitely not a sock!


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Sally's POV:**

"What! What!" I come running into the room screaming, only slightly hysterical, and I see Dean sprawled on the floor with his back pressed so tight to the wall…and an expression on his face like he just saw a ghost. Oh no, not another ghost.

"It got him, Mommy! It had him! It was gonna eat him! I know!" I reach out for my daughter who's screaming like a banshee and try to pull her into a hug, but she just pushes away and keeps pointing to her bed. I look to Dean for some kind of explanation, but he's just as useless.

"What happened?" I ask, hoping _someone_'ll answer me. After all, I wouldn't have even come if I hadn't heard Callie yelling for me like she was 'bout to be strangled or something. Now I'm here and she doesn't even want to tell me what's going on.

Dean shakes his head awkward, like he's trying to get some bad thoughts out and clear his mind or something, and his face goes all flat and determined. And before I can say another word, he throws himself at Callie's bed. No, not even _at _it, _under_ it. I stare wide-eyed while he reaches around for Lord knows what, Cal bouncing around in my arms. Then I hear it. The most God awful sound, a screeching…screaming…squeal of a sound, and without even thinking I grip on to my little girl harder.

"Dean?" I ask, maybe too quiet. If he hear me at all, he doesn't say anything. Instead he pulls back, fast, almost cracking his skull wide open on the bed frame when he does. Now we're all quiet, real quiet. The whole room is dead silent. And we're all just looking, staring at the same spot, just under the bed, right where there's enough light to see. I don't know what we're waiting for – I don't really have the damndest idea what's going on actually – but I'm sure we're waiting for something. I feel Callie move a little out of my arms and I loosen my hold. She leans forward, trying to see better I guess. But just as soon as she gets herself into that position, she reels back, almost knocking me in the face with her elbow.

We both tumble over and I hear another awful noise, a different kind of scream. "Ahhhh!" I watch as a rat the size of Nantucket runs by, charging on so close to my face I almost scream out too. Callie jumps up from my arms and takes a flying leap toward the bed. From the sound of the mattress springs, I'd say she made it to safety. But Dean…he tries to push himself up and scuttles over to a corner, his eyes bugging out like crazy. The giant horse rat makes a beeline for him.

He throws up his hands in defense and I can only imagine what's going through his mind when that…that…thing just flings itself right at him. Like some kind of flying squirrel. He turns his whole body and tries to fold himself up in the corner. And the rat lands short and makes the fastest turn I've ever seen and hightails it out the door.

"Jeez!" I hear coming from the hall. I push myself up on the heels of my hands and turn to see Sam looming above in the doorway. He helps me up and I do the only thing that comes to mind. I slam the door shut and lock it. "What the hell was that?"

"It was under my bed!" Callie shrieks. She jumps up and down, rumpling her covers and sending stuffed animals to the floor. "It tried to eat Dean!"

Sam turns to the corner, I guess seeing his brother for the first time, and bursts out laughing. Poor Dean looks like he can barely move, stuck in some kind of state of shock. He's got his face buried in his hands and I don't think he even realizes that he's being laughed at. "Dude," he says through the big old guffaws. "Dude, you almost got eaten by a rat?"

"Sam," I say very calmly, "it was a _big_ rat."

"Oh man!" He doubles over and nearly hits the ground, he's laughing so hard.

"Not funny!" I look to the corner and see Dean standing there looking like he might just lose his lunch. He straightens himself up weakly and starts to regain his composure, but, boy, is he mad. "I mean it, Sam! It's not funny!"

"Ah, you screamed like a little girl!"

"Hey!" Callie shouts.

"Now Sam," I say, stepping forward and between the two boys. "It was a legitimately frightening situation." He looks at me and bites his lips together to try and keep from letting out any more chuckles, but I guess it's just too hard to hold it all in. He nods his head in agreement with me but his face just keeps turning redder and redder until his mouth bursts open again.

"Did he touch you with his wittle whiskers?" Dean reaches around me to grab him by the shoulder and I shove him off. I will not have two men fighting in my daughter's room. He seems to get the hint and backs away while Sam _tries_ to collect himself.

I'll give them a minute, but not too long. Whatever problems those boys may have with one another don't amount to a hill of beans right now. We've got more important fish to fry.

There's a rat loose somewhere in my house.

_Author's Note: A couple of years ago I was working at a pet store when one of our hairless rats escaped, an awful looking creature. Because I had rats as pets and wasn't therefor afraid of them, the other employees came to get me when they found the escapee so that I could pick him up and put him back. They were scared, I was not. So I reached down to grab him when out of no where he let loose with the most horrific squeeling screech of a scream I've ever heard and I jumped so far back I almost killed myself on a display. Most terrifying experience of my life thus far. Soooo, don't be too down on Dean for screaming like a little girl - I almost did. (Of course, I am a girl, but still.) _


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Sam's POV:**

Do they even actually sell rat poison? Anywhere? I mean is it that what I should be looking for, a box marked 'rat poison' with some kind of skull and crossbones picture? Or a rodent encased in a big red circle with a line through it? "I don't think they have any," I say, but I still keep searching the shelves. "Maybe a hardware store or something?"

He nods and grabs a couple bags of M&M's to go along with the bread Sal sent us out for. Well, bread and of course rat poison, or a trap, or, according to her, a shovel if necessary. Anything we could find to kill her uninvited guest.

Dean hasn't said a word since we left the house, not a single word. It's starting to freak me out. I guess he's embarrassed, but really – and I would never tell him or anyone else this – I probably would have flipped out too. That thing was hideous. I remember coming home one night after a late class and finding Jess up on the kitchen counter. She was sitting cross-legged with a pint of ice cream in her lap and from the doorway she looked like a girl from one of those chick flicks, sitting around in sweats shoveling food in her mouth to keep from crying over some guy or something. As soon as she saw me she started screaming about some kind of little beast that was stalking her. It took me forever to figure out that she was talking about a mouse, a tiny little gray mouse that scurried under her feet when she was bringing in the groceries. Apparently, she was so freaked that she jumped up on the counter and didn't move 'til I got there almost an hour later. She _had_ to eat the ice cream she'd bought because there was no way to get to the freezer without padding across the floor and that just wasn't gonna happen. I laughed at her, stole a bite of the mushy Rocky Road and almost choked on it when I felt something brush against my foot. Again, this is not something I would ever tell Dean, or anyone, but I spent a good hour cowering on that countertop with Jess laughing and insisting that I just "be the man already".

Anyway, I get it. And for the last hour or so I've been really good about it all too. I haven't made a single disparaging comment and no laughter nor anything that might resemble it has spilled from my lips. "Rat got your tongue?" Okay, for the whole drive I was good though.

He gives me a dirty look, narrow eyes and tight straight lips, and for a minute I think he might actually hit me. Instead he turns and heads for the counter mumbling something that sounds vaguely offensive. Ah, well, I deserve it.

The girl at the counter's been watching us since we walked in. And by watching I mean staring. She can't be more than sixteen or seventeen, long mousy hair – ha, mousy – and a mouth full of braces. The term 'ugly duckling' springs to mind. Not to say she's ugly per se, just…awkward. I feel for her. Hell, I was a six-foot-tall thirteen-year-old, I know awkward.

She smiles at Dean when he walks up, big, bright, and metal-laden. He doesn't even smile back. "Will that be all?" she asks slowly.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure there's nothing else you need?" I crack a smile at her eagerness to help, to prolong our stay. "Pack of cigarettes?" She motions behind her to the wall filled with Marlboros and Camels and Virginia Slims.

Dean freezes, his fingers half in his wallet gripping his cash, and glares at her. "I look like I smoke?" he says a little too harshly. She doesn't respond, but her eyes bug out a little and her face totally flushes. Nice, man, humiliate the poor girl why don't ya.

"Just this," I say, stepping up and grinning at her. I push Dean out of the way and pull out my own wallet.

"Lotto's up to 5.2 million if you want a ticket," she says excitedly. "I never play, but…" Dean scoffs loudly and shuts her down, the color leaving her face again. Her eyes drop and fingers fumble while she bags our stuff.

I turn around and shoot a scowl at Dean. What a jerk; she's just a kid. "Actually, Rachel," I say, reading her name tag, "a Lotto ticket would be great. This is Vegas, right? Or almost. Gotta gamble."

"It's not gambling, it's a waste of money," Dean says as he leans over and snatches the bag from her hand. He storms out while I wait for my change, apologizing to Rachel for my brother's jackassness. She mutters something about it being okay, but looks like she might cry all the same. Part of me wants to hug her and tell her it's okay, it's not her fault, some people are just jerks and you can't take it personally. I want to tell her that in a few years her braces will be gone and she'll have grown into her lank a little more and she'll be having to fight guys like Dean off with a stick. I don't really know if that's true or not, but I certainly like to think it is, and I want to tell her so. But I hear the engine of the Impala gun and realize I better haul ass before he tries to take off without me.

"What is your problem, man?" I say as he pulls away, presumably heading for the little hardware store we passed a few blocks down. He shrugs. "She was just a kid."

"A creepy kid."

"You could have been a little nicer."

"I _could _have been a lot of things, Sam." Loaded statement. I wonder if he realizes just what that _could _mean. "This is so fucking stupid!" he says, slamming his hands onto the steering wheel. "I mean, come on man, this is supposed to be a vacation!"

"Yeah, well…"

"You know how long it's been since I had some time off?"

"27 years?" He gives me a weird look, one that says clearly, 'yeah, totally.'

He turns back to the road and mumbles some more. "Looking for something to kill a damn monster rat, picking up bread. Next thing you know she'll be making me hoe her garden or something."

"Kinky."

His face melts as he shakes his head and I think I can hear…wait…yes, it's laughter, real, genuine laughter. "You're a freak, you know that?"

"I've been told I'm not the only one," I say smirking. I can't help but be a little leery of his change in mood. Lately, Dean's been kind of all over the place. One minute he's cracking jokes like always, the very next he's shutting down and shutting up, sullen, I guess, somber…sad. I know it's because I'm leaving. I know he's angry about it. I know he feels, I don't know, abandoned. I can't even blame him for it. I just wish he'd it give it all a chance, give _me_ a chance. I wish he'd give himself a chance, because really, now's the time.

"Hey," I say, "how long were you here, helping them out and all?"

He shrugs and I feel the knot in my stomach grow. Are we shifting to moody evasive Dean all ready? "A while."

I know it was a little more that a while. Jake said he helped with the whole renovation, it must have taken months. But I won't push it, gotta pick your battles. "Did you like it here?"

"It's all right. Hot."

"Better than cold." I know my brother, he hates the cold. Truthfully, I always thought he'd end up on a beach somewhere, retiring to the Bahamas or something. Of course he might have to get on a plane to do that, which could be tough. "I think it's nice. Kind of small town feel, but right next to a big city."

"Big shit hole, you mean."

"I thought you liked Vegas?"

Another shrug. "It's not bad, it's just…a playground, you know…not a city." I bet all the people who don't live and work solely on the strip would disagree, but again, picking my battles.

"Still, it's nice. And you've got friends. And, really, this isn't too far from Stanford." He pulls into the parking lot, puts the car in park, pulls out the keys, all in staunch silence. I see his hand move for the door handle, stop and retreat, then move back again and grab hold.

But he doesn't get out. Instead he turns to me and says simply, kind of pathetically, "Sam, I can't."

* * *

When I was six I got the Chicken Pox. And promptly gave them to Dean. We spent two weeks at home, whatever home was then, lying around feeling like itchy, blotchy, pukey crap. Dad was gone most of the time, hunting maybe, could have been hitting the bars. For all I know he went on one of his repentant benders, which usually included crying to Caleb or Pastor Jim about what an awful father and human being he was, promising to get help, be better, and quickly thereafter falling headlong into a bottle of Jack or Wild Turkey. Doesn't matter, point is, I don't remember him being there at all. What I remember is my brother putting all of his pain on hold to take care of me. What I remember is Dean running out, hot with fever, itchy with pox, to get more 7up and Calamine lotion for me. What I remember is him taking my temperature and smacking my hand away when I tried to scratch and force feeding me chicken noodle soup and crackers, and just in general being a parent to me.

I needed him then. Now? Now things are different. Now I think maybe he needs me. And God knows, I owe him. But for the life of me, I don't know what to do about that.

I don't even know why I'm thinking about this right now. Here we are standing in line behind some ancient looking guy buying lumber – what could he possibly be doing with all that anyway? – and I'm reminiscing about the Chicken Pox.

They have to do a price check on one of the traps we got and I can see Dean getting all shifty and impatient. But at least he's not being incredibly rude like he was to our last clerk. By the time we finish paying and head to the car…unbelievable…it's almost two o'clock. The first day of our unofficial get-your-brotherly-bonding-in-while-you-can-cause-Sam's-leaving sabbatical, and it's been spent hunting rat.

There must be something about the heat out here, aside from the fact that it's trying to suffocate me, that is. Everybody seems to be moving incredibly slowly. We shuffle back to the car and I see the tiny old man who was in front of us in line climb into a monstrous pick-up, the back completely filled with wood and what looks like jugs of gasoline. Is he building something or having a bonfire? I keep my eye on him in the mirror as we pull away and notice that he looks like he can barely see over the wheel. There is no way a guy like that should be street legal.

We pull onto the main drag and the car promptly stalls, smoke billowing out from under the hood. "No, no, no!" Dean might be upset, but I can't say I'm surprised. This certainly isn't the first time the Impala's overheated. And even though being stuck at a light on what feels like the hottest day the planet's ever seen isn't actually my idea of a good time, it sure beats the middle of the woods with a werewolf with on the loose. At least if we have to walk somewhere for help here, we won't run the risk of being eaten. I hope.

Dean continues to alternately curse under his breath and whisper sweet encouragements to his 'baby' while I stick my head as far out the window as I can. Sweat drips down my forehead, down my neck and back and makes my T-shirt stick to my shoulder blades. Gross. I gotta get out of this car.

I turn around to make sure no one's gonna zoom past and run me down. Of course they won't, they can't move, we're blocking them in. I open the door and get out just as our light turns green. No one honks. No one even moves, and at first I think it's because of the heat, it just breeds laziness. Or maybe, around here, this sort of thing is so commonplace it doesn't even register with them to be angry or impatient. But then I hear the screech of tires and the impossibly loud crash. And the rest of the world drifts into silence.

_A/N: If you would like to make my world a little brighter, you may feel free to go review now._


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Emily's POV:**

I believe this is what they call the fifth circle of Hell. I could be wrong, but I'm not usually. Of course, it's my own fault that I'm here, or at least that's what my father would say. If only I'd studied a little harder, partied a little less, cared a little more…well, then I'd be doing my first year of residency at John's Hopkins. Okay, that's pushing it, but still, I could have qualified for some hospital that at least had a decent trauma center. Instead, I'm stuck in Bumblefuck, Nevada sewing together some guy's scalp. And the sad thing is I'm glad to do it. This is the most exciting case I've had since a kid walked through a plate glass door last week.

"There you go," I say, placing the last bit of tape over the gauze. "A whole eight stitches." He smiles at me and shakes his head, clearly embarrassed.

"Eight stitches. I guess I'm lucky to be alive." We both laugh as his fingers gingerly brush the bandage.

"You were a real trooper," I say in keeping with the sarcastic sentiment. I pull a green sucker out of my pocket and hand it to him. "For being so brave." He takes it and says thank you, sweet subtle laughter still rolling from his throat. He looks up at me from under waves of dark hair and I can see that even his eyes are smiling. And that makes me smile.

"Paper work's done. Signed, sealed, delivered," I hear as a man enters the exam room. He stops short when he sees me and his face quickly lightens from a concerned scowl to a painfully flirtatious, dare I say down right arrogant, smile. No, smirk. "Hello," he says in a voice to match the look.

"My brother, Dean. Dean, this is Dr. Reynolds." He shakes my hand and I'm surprised at how cool his skin feels. Out here everything's hot most of the time, everyone. Half my patients tend to be victims of either heat stroke or exhaustion.

Almost as soon as his brother speaks, Dean turns his head and his expression shifts again. Looking at Mr. Clage – what did he say his name was? Sam? – the worried scowl returns. It remains when he glances back at me, clearly now seeing me for what I truly am, nothing more than a doctor. "You're done already?"

"Nothing to it," Sam says as he rises from the exam table, the white paper crinkling under him.

"Stitches?" he asks. Sam nods. "How many?"

"Eight."

He lets out a sort of scoff, half laugh, half sigh, and his face relaxes a bit. Then he turns to me and looks me dead in the eyes. "Concussion?"

I clear my throat awkwardly – God, that sounded gross – and avert my eyes. Something about his stare is simply too much to take in. His eyes, the worry and fear…the hope. I feel like I should laugh, there's no reason to be so concerned over such a non-injury. But what I really want to do is hug him, hold him close, tell him everything's all right. "Just a slight one," I say. Then, letting my eyes venture back to his, "He's fine."

"Check it out," Sam says from behind, mouth full of lime sucker. "I even got a lolly pop." He smiles big and bright and I can tell, even after knowing these men mere minutes, that that look is likely the best medicine and quickest cure for a guy in Dean's position. Without warning I'm overcome by a sudden urge to call _my_ younger brother, whom I haven't talked to in months.

"You're such a friggin' fruit loop," he says, shaking his head back and forth, an amused and relieved expression on his face. "Hey, how's the old guy?"

It takes me a minute to figure out that he's talking to me. "Oh," I say simply, "I don't know."

"Crazy bastard, never should have been on the road in the first place."

"Dean, the guy could be dead."

"Yeah, well," he says turning to his brother, "so could you."

"Please, I got hit by a chunk of wood. I'm fine, right doctor?"

I nod in agreement while making some final notations on his chart, ones I don't really have to make but do so just to look busy, look like I still have business being in here. "He's fine."

I look up only briefly and see Dean's face turn a shade of red. "It wasn't a chunk of wood, Sammy, it was a freaking two-by-four."

"Yeah, but it was only the tail end of it, not like there was a lot of force." A two-by-four? I feel my eyebrow arch in curiosity and immediately try to will it back down. Ever since one of my colleagues pointed out, amid a tumble of giggles I might add, that I talk with my eyebrows, I've been a little too guarded and aware of my expressiveness. But I can't help but ask.

"What exactly happened out there?" I only knew the pertinent facts, an elderly man wrapped his car around a pole. One of the attendings, of course, was in charge of treating him. My patient had been whacked in the head by a piece of wood thrown from the vehicle during impact.

Dean sighs long and hard, but I can't tell if it's because he doesn't want to tell me, or he does, he just doesn't want it to _seem_ like he does. "This old guy in a pick up ran a red and, I don't know, lost control I guess."

"He crashed right in front of us," Sam interrupts.

"All the shit he had in back of his truck went everywhere when another car hit him. And a _huge_," he emphasizes while eyeing Sam, "piece of wood took Sammy out."

"It didn't _take me out_. And it's Sam."

"Yeah, whatever," he says, a hint of that overly confident grin returning. "You hit the ground hard, dude."

"What?" His tongue and lips smack green as he speaks. "Are you kidding me? I've been hurt worse by _you_."

"What's that supposed to mean? Like I'm not capable of hurting you? What I'm so weak and pathetic that I couldn't take you on?"

"You said it," he says, his stained lips curling into a Cheshire grin, "not me."

"You wanna find out just how much damage I can do to you?"

Sam clears his throat loudly and looks from Dean to me, clearly signaling him that I'm still in the room. He spins around and chuckles lightly, almost embarrassed, I think, and his eyes fall down and away from me as he says sheepishly, "We're just goofing around."

I smile, perhaps a bit broader than intended, and raise my eyebrows, not caring if they're overly expressive or not. "I'll bet," I say, and he looks up at me immediately, catches my eyes and seems put at ease. He returns my smile, but this time it feels genuine, not cocky. "I have brothers," I tell him, though I'm not sure why. "Older and younger. I know how you boys can be."

Our eyes stay locked for only a fleeting moment before he shakes his head slightly and returns his attention to Sam. "Doesn't matter," he says under his breath, more to himself, I think, than anyone else. "Point is," he locks eyes with his brother, "You _could_ have been killed."

Sam pulls the nearly spent sucker out of his mouth and holds Dean's gaze. "So could you," he says, and I realize that the conversation has taken a much more earnest turn. "You realize that if we hadn't stalled, we would have been right there, right in the middle of that intersection, right in his path. Going as fast as he was, loaded down with all that weight, man he would have totally plowed over us." He makes a fist and punches his open palm, a loud sweaty smack, for emphasis. His dark hair bobs back and forth as he shakes his head, wearing the kind of smile a man wears when he realizes just how lucky he is. "Good thing that hunk of metal crapped out when it did."

"Hey," he says, seeming genuinely offended. "Do not refer to my baby as a hunk of metal. What gratitude. You just said she saved your life."

"Actually, I said _she_ saved _your_ live. Driver's side would have been completely demolished. No more Dean."

"No more Impala," he says softly, a dreamy and ominous tone to his voice. Then color floods his cheeks again and his eyes focus once more. "Still, you'd be hurting. So she saved your sorry ass too."

"Yeah," he says before biting the remaining candy and quickly crunching it to bits. "Spared by an overheated engine. Would that be considered divine intervention or just plain luck?" He looks to me. "What do you think, doc?"

I take a moment to answer, my eyes moving back and forth, from one brother to the other. "I think it's a sign you need to pay more attention to how much coolant's in your car." Dean's face takes on an almost pained expression, as though I were questioning his parenting skills, which really I suppose I was. I flip shut the metal chart and reach into my pocket, come out with a red sucker, and hand it to Dean. "Here ya go," I say lightly, and with a wink, "you look like you could use it."

_A/N: I know, not even close to being the best chapter in the world, but you can feel free to review it anyway! _


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Jake's POV:**

Bad luck. I'd like to say I don't believe in it. I'd like to say that it's all just a bunch of crap, a nice and tidy way of excusing the actions of other people, or even yourself. I'd like to think that we're in charge of our own reality, not fate or destiny, or _luck_, good or bad. But I can't truly say or think those things, no matter how much I may want to.

Look at me, at my life. How could you account for the things that have gone so right, the best that I have? I met my wife when I turned too fast at the counter at Starbucks and spilled my latte all over her. She didn't get burned because the textbooks she was carrying took the brunt of the spill. She laughed and said it didn't matter because it was the end of the semester and she had just finished her final for that class so she didn't need the books anyway. She didn't drink coffee. She was there to get some hot chocolate for a sick friend. I never go to Starbucks, but my coffee maker broke the day before. Neither of us are from Nevada, had no real reason to go school out here, yet there we both were. Perfect. Fated. Lucky.

Of course, we also had an unplanned pregnancy, a baby to care for while trying to build a business, a nest egg sunk into a dilapidated and _haunted_ house, and thousands of dollars in student loans all to contend with in our first year of marriage. Bad luck? Maybe.

How about now? The Bed and Breakfast makes next to nothing. Sure for the first couple of years we did all right, but now? It's been six months at least since we've had a paying customer. Sal's doing telemarketing on the side, which she sucks at because she always feels bad for interrupting people's days and dinners, and I, with my MBA, am managing a garage to make ends meet. Which they still don't, meet that is. But still, should I blame that on some sort of bad luck, or just admit to making some poor judgement calls for which my daughter will pay – you know, when we finally decide to sell her on the black market so we can swing the car payment. Hey, kids are great and all, but she can't carry me to and from work.

I don't know. I don't know. But at this moment, I'm leaning towards the idea that there definitely is such a thing as bad luck. And the reason why is because I can almost smell it oozing off the Winchester brothers.

I'm finishing up the last of some over due paperwork when I see them saunter into the garage. After signing the final form and tossing it into one of the haphazard stacks on my desk I walk out of my glass fishbowl of an office to greet them. "She looks good," I say as I approach, and Dean gives me an exhausted smile, a rather limp handshake.

"Thanks," he says through a sigh. "What do I owe you?"

I shake my head. "Not a thing. All she needed was some more coolant, a little break. Desert's hell on cars, especially the older ones."

"We prefer the term _classic_," Sam chimes in, all counterfeit smiles.

I look at him only briefly before gasping. "Oh, man, you look like shit!" His T-shirt is soaked with sweat and blood, parts of it dried brown, parts still burning red. There's a bandage taped to his head, just below the hairline. Most of it's concealed by his hair, flopping over into his face, but I can make out a little bit blood that's made its way through the gauze. "Sal didn't tell me you were hurt."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't know," Dean says, and I can see that he means to keep it that way, that he purposely didn't tell her so she wouldn't go into worry overdrive. And I'm thankful for that. "At least let me pay for the tow."

"Naw, really, forget about it. Besides, we're the only decent sized garage in the area so we got the other two cars too. Truck's totaled, but we should make something off the Camry." He nods his understanding, but I can see that he really wants to offer payment again. He's just that kind of guy, doesn't like owing people, definitely doesn't like charity. We have that in common and it only adds to my respect for him. But because I understand how he feels I find myself saying, "If you really want to pay me back you could help Sal out with some advertising stuff." He perks up a little, eager to help, and I'm reminded of when we first met, how ready he seemed to do whatever he could around the house for us, like he was repaying some debt I know he didn't owe me.

"Yeah, whatever you need."

"Just basic stuff," I say, leading them to their car. "I think she made up some flyers with coupons or something. If you could just drive them around, you know, when you get a chance, not right now or anything." He nods again and then looks up at his Impala, his face brightening as he runs his fingers across the hood.

When we first met, most of our conversations revolved around that car. There was talk about the spirits that were haunting my house – man, I still can't even _think_ about that with a straight face…spirits, ghosts, haunting – and later some discussions about how to lay the floors or put up drywall, but somehow it always came back to cars. Maybe it was just our only shared interest at the time, since I couldn't even say the word ghost without giggling and he wouldn't know a jigsaw if it sliced off his finger, which did almost happen once.

I heard him, though, talking late at night with Sal. She never sleeps much and it seemed like he always had something keeping him up too. I never interrupted, just eavesdropped until their voices lulled me to sleep. I know his mother died when he was very young. His father's the one who taught him about all the ghostly stuff, and his relationship with him was…strained. He never used the word abuse, not that I heard anyway. But I did see his face one day when Sal, broke with worry and exhaustion, overworked, overwrought, and just plain irritated, reached down and spanked a screaming Callie. I saw all his color drain, his jaw go slack, and his eyes drift, like he was remembering something long ago. And I saw his face contort painfully when Cal cried out and started balling. His cringe wasn't one of disgust or anger, just a pure and sickening sort of recognition. I remember looking at him, hearing my daughter crying in the background, my wife mumbling apologies to her, and wondering if anyone else had ever seen that face, the one I'm sure he did all he could to keep hidden.

But that wasn't the only time I wondered that about Dean. He had so many faces, so many masks, that even after nearly four months together, working together, living in the same house, sharing a six pack on the back porch nearly every one of those days, I still couldn't say I really knew the man at all. He had a cocky face to mask the fact that he knew nothing about carpentry, and a legitimately knowing one to show that he _legitimately knew_ about certain other things. He had a special friendly and open grin he used when talking to Sal, the kind she always manages to bring out in people, and a goofy over-exaggerated one he wore just to make Callie laugh. The one time I remember him mentioning his brother – to me anyway, I know he talked about him a lot to Sal – his face relaxed more than I think I ever saw it do, complete with a shy and crooked smile, and his eyes went unfocused, almost dreamy, like he was reliving…good times. It was the absolute antithesis to the look I saw when Callie got spanked.

The expression he has now is one of relief, and it seems genuine, but I can never really tell. Dean's a man who hides behind so many different faces, so many different masks, that I doubt even he knows which ones are real are which are just fabrications of a distraught mind trying to remain hidden. But he _seems_ more at ease than when he first entered, now that he knows his car's all right, can feel the fully intact metal under his hands. "She saved our lives, you know," he says rather absently, still fingering the shiny black surface.

"Yeah," I say as I watch Sam nod in agreement. "I was thinking when I got there how lucky you must have been that she stalled when she did." I say lucky not because it's just something you say in a situation like this, but because I really do feel that's what happened here. They finally happened upon some good luck. It's about time.

"We should get back," Sam says, and I hand him the keys. He tosses them to Dean and goes to climb into the passenger side. "Sal probably still needs some help hunting down that rat."

I laugh, remembering the account she gave me over the phone earlier this morning. _Huge thing, scared the Bejesus out of me, took off straight for Dean who screamed like a little girl – don't him I said that._ "Yeah, well, it's probably long gone by now," I say, knowing full well it's nothing but an irrational hope. "Besides, when she sees you, she'll probably forget all about that and just wrap you up in a blanket and coddle you 'til you suffocate."

"There's something to look forward to."

Dean starts the engine and Sam gets in. I lean down to say something through the open window. "You know what? You guys have had a rough day. What do you say we hit the town tonight?" I don't really know if it's a good idea or not. They look beat, and a bit bloodied. And quite frankly, even though they had a little bit of good luck, what with avoiding the accident and all, I'm still convinced they may be magnets for the bad. Part of me doesn't even want to take them to the strip, the last thing I need is a couple of cursed brothers following me around a casino. But if anybody needs a break and a night out it's these boys.

They look at each other briefly, asking, answering, and deciding all with a shared glance. Then they both shoot smiles and nods my way before waving and driving off.

_A/N: Not too exciting, but wait! Next we get to have some fun in Vegas! I haven't really decided what might happen there, so I'm open to suggestions. Anywhoo, until we meet again...review, review, review! _


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

Dean's POV:

"You've gotta be kidding me." No, seriously. They can't be serious.

"C'mon, Dean," he says, shooting me those damned puppy dog eyes. "It's too tacky not to be fun." Tacky, yes. Fun? I doubt it.

"No."

"Well," Jake interrupts, "while you guys stand here figuring out just how pathetic you have to be to spend money on this, I'm gonna hit the bar." He squeezes past us and enters, actually goes inside, a bar filled with costumed Star Trek freaks. You have _got_ to be kidding.

I look at Sam and he's got that big bright stupid smile on his face. "Man." He laughs and turns to head in, tosses his head back to say…something, probably assuring me you don't have to be a Trekkie freak to have fun here, which might be true, or might not be. I catch up with him, moving through the crowds of people. "I don't even like Star Trek."

"Liar," he says, still with that stupid-ass smile. Okay, so I've seen it before, but, so what? I catch Oprah sometimes too. Doesn't mean I want to go be in her audience and sit in on a big cry session about some chick whose husband cheated on her with a guy. "Dean, it's just for fun. Like a joke, you know. Chill." I swear if Sammy tells me to chill or relax or just have fun one more time, I'm gonna strangle him 'til his beady little eyes pop out of his skull.

"Fun? All I see is a bunch of dorks mingling with other dorks, some of whom are wearing masks and fake ears." He shoots me a quasi-dirty look and I shrug at him. It's the truth though, mostly anyway. Okay, really, most of the people here look perfectly normal, but still…the Star Trek Experience? Maybe they're all drunk. Maybe I _should_ be drunk. I turn around to see if I can find Jake, but I can't even make out the bar through all the people, let alone one little red haired guy.

"Ow!" Dammit, that – what the hell is that thing? A Klingon? – just kicked me! "Hey!" Jerk. Yeah, whatever. Fine, keep on walking, pretend like you didn't hear me. See if I care. I know you know what you did. Damn stupid aliens.

Seriously, there are way too many people here. What the hell? And where…Sam? "Sam?" Where'd he go? "Hey, Sammy?" Oh, man.

I look around as best I can, push my way through the crowds on all sides. I see a museum. I see cocktail waitresses dressed like Vulcans. I see groups of people snapping pictures and laughing. What I don't see is a tall lanky kid in desperate need of a haircut. No, wait, there's one…but it's not my tall lanky longhaired freak. Shit. It's like the crowd just swallowed him up. The Trekkies ate my brother.

And to think, this was supposed to be a fun night out.

But, no, Sal didn't want Jake to go losing any dough at the craps table, so we all have to suffer. He drops fifty bucks in twenty minutes and all of a sudden we're only allowed to play the slots. Do I look like an eighty-year-old woman to you? No. I want Texas Hold'em, Five Card Stud, Black Jack, Roulette. I want the _real_ Vegas. I don't want slots. And I sure as hell don't want the fucking Star Trek Experience.

Dammit, Sam, where are you?

This is so like him. Just goes and wanders off and doesn't give a second thought to anyone but himself. What is he, four? You can't just go disappearing like that, like this. You can't.

The last time this happened I found him locked up in a cage waiting to be hunted by the Deliverance wannabes. And I should have left him there, left him to figure his own way out. That's what you get for wandering off and letting yourself get snatched. I mean, really, I was gone, what, five minutes? I'm not even allowed to pee by myself, cause if I do he'll end up missing? That's sad, man, horribly, pathetically, sad.

Okay, so yeah, it might have been a little more than five minutes. I did meet a girl, a crazy hot biker chick. And I might have talked to her for a few. Maybe even offered to buy her a drink. But as soon as her _huge_ leather clad old man showed, I went out to find Sam. And where was he? Waiting patiently outside like he said? No. Was he sitting in the car sulking like usual? No. He was gone. Disappeared. Stolen in the night.

What a pain in the ass.

And I'm supposed to what? Drop everything and go looking for him? Drive myself crazy worrying that something got him, some kind of ghost or demon or other…bad thing? Like he even cares. That's the problem with little brothers. They just don't care. He doesn't see that all I, as the responsible and trustworthy older brother, do is take care of him. And not because I want to. Noooooo. You think I _want_ to get beat down by a little girl and tied up by a bunch of inbred freaks just to try and save his sorry ass? Or go on a plane, a _plane_, doomed to crash just so he wouldn't get himself killed trying to an exorcism alone? Or, shit, do you think I actually want to have to run out in the middle of the night to fill up pain pills so he can make it through the migraines those _visions_ cause? Well, I don't.

But I don't really have a choice, now do I? You want to think our family's cursed, Sammy? Our family's not cursed, _I_ am. Having to deal with a little pain in the ass brother like you. Seriously, man, where are you?

"Dean?" Who the…? I turn around a little too fast to see where the voice came from and, gracefully as usual, trip over my own two feet. She catches me. "Hey, I thought it was you," she says while I stand up and try to cover, make it look like someone knocked into me or something. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh, vacation," I say without really looking at her. I do a quick sweep of the crowd behind her, searching for Sam before I catch her face again. I've met a lot of girls. I've told a lot of them my real name. And I'm sure I've left a lasting impression with most if not all of them. But she's not one of those girls. "Haley." She smiles. "Haley Collins."

"How are you?" she asks, sweeping some dark hair behind her ear. It's shorter than the last time I saw her, a little bit too short to stay put, and the loose wave keeps falling in her face. I watch her try to pull it back again and feel my lips curl into a smile.

"Fine," I say finally. "Good. You?"

"Yeah, same. Hey, you're not here…fighting something, or whatever it is you guys do, are you?"

"Oh, no. Nope, just a vacation."

"That's nice." Someone bumps her from behind and she almost falls into me. This time _I_ catch _her_. She smiles again, but awkward-like, before clearing her throat and asking, "Is Sam here?"

Sam. Shit. "Uh, yeah," I say and start to scan the crowd again. "He's around somewhere." I look back at her and…I don't know…women, my one weakness. Isn't this how we got into trouble last time? Sam went out to wait for me and got kidnapped because I got distracted by a hot little number at the bar. Priorities, Dean. "Actually, I kinda lost him."

"Oh," she says and starts looking around herself. "Well, I guess that's not too tough around here."

"Yeah. Who'd have thought so many people loved Star Trek so much?"

I'm keeping my eyes out for Sam, looking out over every face, but still I can hear her snicker. I turn around to face her. "Not that I'm one, a fan I mean. I'm not." She giggles a little more, tries to cover her mouth with her small hands. "What? I look like someone who knows what a Vulcan is to you?"

"Well, you would kind of have to know in order to even use the word, wouldn't you?"

I shake my head and laugh. Point taken. "Still, I'm no freak."

"Right, right. You just travel the country with your brother killing evil things. Nothing freakish there."

"I didn't hear you complaining when we were saving you and your brothers from that Wendigo."

"No," she says, suddenly serious. "No, you didn't." She ducks her head and looks almost sad, just for a minute. But she either bounces back quick or is great at hiding things because when I see her face again, it's all smiles. "C'mon, let's see if we can't find your lost little boy."

* * *

We searched for about twenty minutes before finally finding him getting his picture taken in the Captain's chair. What a dork. He comes trotting over after handing his money to some pimply faced alien looking thing and stops smiling only for a second. He cocks his head and stares in our direction and for a sec I think he can see how worried I was, how stupid and inconsiderate _he_ was to just take off. But then I realize that he's not even looking at me, he's looking at Haley, and the expression on his face isn't guilty, it's confused.

"Hey, Sam," she says before I get a chance to bitch him out.

"Haley." He still looks kind of confused but seems to remember her anyway. I can see why, she is pretty memorable. "How are you?"

"Oh, all right, I guess. Having fun?" she says, pointing at the setup where a whole line of people is waiting to get their pictures taken. He laughs that little almost embarrassed laugh he has that somehow seems to drive women crazy, and I can't help but roll my eyes.

"Where the hell have you been?" He looks at me like I'm crazy, me, crazy. "You can't just take off like that, man," I say, and realize as soon as it comes out just how pathetic I sound.

And so does he. "Sorry, mom." I scowl at him and he stops smirking, which is something I guess. "There are a ton of people here, Dean. We got separated. I figured we'd just meet up later. If you were worried, you know, you could have just called my cell and I would have told you where I was."

Damn, why didn't I think of that? "I wasn't worried. It was just…rude, that's all."

He turns on a shit-eating grin and I know he doesn't believe me, but at least he doesn't say anything. Instead he turns back to Haley and takes a hold of her arm, leads her out of the crowd and toward the bar area, which is just now starting to thin out some. "So are you here with friends?" he asks her and I realize that I never even thought to ask what she was doing here. I mean, it isn't exactly a short little drive from Middle-of-Nowhere, Colorado to Vegas.

I follow behind them but make sure to stay close enough that I can still hear, close enough that I won't lose track of Sam again. "Sort of," she says. "Not really. I came with this guy from work. I just didn't realize he was quite so into all this. I mean I knew he was kind of a geek, but when he started talking to someone in that language – what is it? Well, anyway, that's when I split. Then I saw Dean," she looks over her shoulder at me.

"From work?" We all sit down at a somewhat out of the way table and I wave a waitress over as Sam goes on. "You work here? I mean…around here?"

"Las Vegas? Yeah. I deal over at the Mirage."

"Really?" She shrugs. I order us three beers. "So you left Colorado?" She nods.

My turn. "Let me guess, you came out here with hopes of hitting it big?"

"Um, no," she says laughing.

"Came for the lights then?"

"Came for a guy named Joe."

"Ah." Damn.

"Joe is no more though." I look up and our eyes lock for a minute. Yeah, much better.

"But you decided to stay. Waiting for a spot to open up on the showgirl circuit?"

"No, smart ass."

"Too bad."

It's weird, seeing her here. Hell, it's probably a lot weirder for her. Some incredibly handsome guy rescues you from a monster in the woods, you probably expect to never see him again. It's more romantic that way. But, hey, this is life not the movies, and what is it they say? Truth is stranger than fiction. Hmm.

"So how are your brothers?" Sam asks when the waitress brings our beers.

"Good. They're good. Tommy got this great job, computer stuff. And Ben's starting school in the fall. CU Boulder." She looks down at her beer and swirls it around as she talks, like she can't stand to look us in the eye when mentioning them. But then she says, "I miss them, you know?" And I do know.

_A/N: So I decided to put Haley in b/c a new challenge was posted about adding characters the boys have met in episodes past. And I did say I'd do all of the challenges, so... Anywhoo, I've still got a few left to cover, and some are harder to pick out than others, but this chapter should at least sort of take of the one regarding The Benders. Maybe I'll go more in depth with that later. Maybe I won't. At any rate, I will now allow you to all go and hit that shiny little button beneath to review. Thank you! _


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

**Sam's POV:**

I got it. I can't believe…I actually freakin' got it. I mean, yeah, sure I applied again. Hell, every law student applied. But _I _got it.

"What's with you?"

"What?" I say turning around. I see Dean standing in the open doorway looking at me like I grew a third head. I didn't even hear him come in.

He narrows his eyes and studies me for a second before sitting down across from me at the table. "Vision?" he asks, and I can't tell if he'd prefer I say yes or no, if he's asking because he's concerned or hopeful. I shake my head and hold up the cell phone I just clicked off. "Dad?" Again, I'm not sure which response he'd like me to give. Again, I just shake my head no. "What then?"

And my mood comes crashing down. Yay, I got the job! No, I have to tell Dean.

No easy way, right? I should just come out and say it. Dean, I know you're already sad and pissed that I'm leaving to go back to school soon, and I know this was supposed to be a great brother-brother stress-free vacation kind of thing for us to do to make the…transition a little easier. And I know that so far it's been neither stress-free nor particularly brother-brotherly fun time. But I got a job and have to be back at Stanford by Monday. Sorry.

"Sam," he says breaking me out of my thoughts. "Who was on the phone?" He looks worried. I want to tell him he shouldn't be, it's nothing bad, it's good. But I doubt he'll see it that way.

"An old professor of mine," I say. Maybe if I just ease into it…

"From Stanford?"

"Yeah."

"What's he want?" I try to stifle a laugh. It's amazing how defensive he gets at even the mention of my school. Defensive and jealous.

"He has a job for me," I say, completely cowardly averting his eyes.

"Really?" he asks, seeming interested, maybe a little excited even. "What kind of job? We gotta leave right away?" I look up at him and see my mistake. A job. To Dean that only means one thing.

I shake my head back and forth for a minute – at least it seems like that long – before correcting him, saying what needs to be said. I look into his eyes and prepare to – for the second time in four months – break my brother's heart. "Not that kind of job," I say softly. Maybe too softly. He gets it right away, I can tell when his posture tenses, his mouth straightens, and all the color drains from his face. But he doesn't say a word. "Professor McKinn, he only teaches a couple of classes. When he's not teaching he works at a law firm. _His _law Firm. McKinn and McKay." He snorts at the name and looks away, but I go on. "They do mostly environmental law, which is really what I want to do. And every year he hires a new intern. He gives his students first crack, but he remembered me from last year. He was kind of a mentor…to me. Anyway, he offered me the position, which is crazy because I'm already behind and a year out of practice and, really, not at all experienced enough for it. But he called and offered it to me, and I accepted."

He doesn't move. He doesn't look back over at me. He doesn't speak. He just sits there, staring down at the floor. _We_ just sit there, here, in this strange kitchen that smells like lemon zest and roasting chicken, in silence. Forever.

At least it seems like forever. I can hear Callie playing somewhere upstairs, stomping around and singing. And there's Sal begging her to be quiet. I can hear the beginning of the storm they said would roll in tonight, pitter-patter of little raindrops on the roof. But it's a long time before I hear my brother's voice again.

He takes in a deep breath and gets up, heads to the counter, pours himself a cup of cold coffee. He walks to the opposite side of the room and puts it in the microwave for 72 seconds. 72 seconds? Then, finally, he turns to me and says simply, "Congratulations." I can't tell – his voice is so flat – if he's being sarcastic or totally, bizarrely honest. Knowing him like I do though, I'm, guessing the former.

"I'm sorry," I say and he gives an awkward wave of the hand, like 'don't bother' or 'it's cool'. The microwave beeps and he takes out the mug, sets it on the counter and leans up against the cabinets.

"Last night was fun, huh?" He tries to make his voice light, but it doesn't quite work. "At least after we got out of that creepy Star Trek trap."

"Yeah," I say.

"Seeing Haley…that was weird. Cool, but weird." He blows on his coffee and takes a sip.

"Yeah." Should I tell him I really did have fun last night, that Jake was a riot playing the slots, yelling at the machines? That Haley's stories about growing up with her brothers made me laugh and think about what our life could have been like if not for Dad's drinking, our family's hunting? Should I mention that I noticed how quiet he was when she spoke, not just out of respect but genuine interest, more interest than I've ever seen him have in a girl he's sharing a pitcher of beer with? Or should I just keep saying 'yeah', keep waiting for the inevitable?

"You hear Sal last night screaming at Jake? I guess he told her about the $250 he lost."

He laughs a little, that same scoff-snort-chuckle, and I say, "Yeah." And he notices. He notices that I'm not really participating in this discussion, if you could even call it that. He notices that even though I'm looking at him, I'm also trying to look away. He notices that the elephant in the room is begging to be acknowledged.

He sets down his coffee and puts his hands on the counter behind him, bracing himself it looks like, his knuckles growing white as he clings to the gray granite. "When are you leaving?" he asks, his voice more deep and serious than I think I've ever heard it before.

"Sunday," I say staring into his eyes. I can't gauge his reaction, he doesn't even seem to have one. He just stares stonily at me and I feel my cheeks burn in a guilty and ashamed blush. "I start Monday, so I have to go." I can't take it; I look away. "We still have a few days." I hear the words come out and can't help but cringe at how pathetic they sound, like a whiny five-year-old.

I don't look back at him in time. When I'm finally able to force my head to turn, my eyes to focus elsewhere, all I see is my brother's back, his hunched shoulders, his strong hands scooping the car keys off the counter, and his quick stride as he storms out of the kitchen.

_A/N: I know this one's a little short, but I'm already working on the next chapter and hope to have it up soon. Until then, please, feel free to review!_


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

_A/N: I just love all your reviews! Keep 'em coming! Here's the next chap, this one's a little longer. Hope you all likeey!_

_

* * *

_

**Haley's POV:**

It's worse when it rains, everything's worse. Maybe it's just because it's so rare. I guess if you're gonna pick a moment to feel sorry for yourself, to regret your decisions and wish things were different, it'd better be the type of moment that doesn't come around too often. Otherwise how would you get anything done?

Maybe it just reminds me of home, not that it rained so much in Colorado, but it was enough that I have vivid memories of it. Like when Ben was little and deathly afraid of thunder, and he'd sometimes crawl into bed with me late at night if the storm was really bad. Never Tommy, he thought he'd make fun of him, call him a baby. Just me. And I remember Tommy's high school graduation, just before our parents died, back when we were all still a family, a happy, _whole_ family. Everyone had to scrunch together under umbrellas when, halfway through the outdoor ceremony, it started to pour. By the time it was over the whole senior class had purple streaks running down their legs and faces from where the dye ran off of the cheap polyester caps and gowns. Some people were really upset, but we just laughed, said it'd be a day none of us would forget.

Maybe that's why it's so much harder when it rains. Thinking about those times makes me feel…not just lonely, but alone.

The first clap of thunder startles me so that I almost drop my hot chocolate. I know, I know, hot chocolate's for five-year-olds who need to warm up after building a snow fort, not 25-year-olds who have to crank the air all the way up on a brutally muggy night just to enjoy the warm treat. But it's comfort food, and I need it. It was either this or call home and run the risk of crying over the phone. And I just did that a couple of days ago.

_Ding Doooooooonnnnngggggggg._

Oh God, I hate that doorbell. I set down my mug and head for the door, prepare myself for Spencer, the only person I can imagine it being. Who else would traipse out in this weather to this part of town in the middle of the night but a true blue stalker? But when I open the door I see that it's not Spencer. "Dean?"

"You mind if I come in?" he asks as he pushes his way inside, flinging some of the moisture off his wet hair. He stands in my living room a wide grin plastered to his face and a giant puddle forming at his feet and as I turn to close the door behind him I feel a weight lift and a smile come over me. I'm not alone.

"You know, when I gave you my number I thought you might call," I say as I move for the hall closet. I reach in and pull out a couple towels. "I didn't think you'd use it to look up my address and start stalking me."

"If I were stalking you I'd still be sitting in my car, hoping that you're one of those girls who likes to undress in front of the windows." I hand him a big red beach towel and place the others down by his feet to soak up the rain he's left in my carpet.

"I'm not one of those girls."

"Too bad." He dries himself off as best he can, starting with his hair, then running the towel down his arms, his legs. He uses it to squeeze some of the moisture out of his jeans, but it's no use, he's soaked, a soggy, dripping mess. I can't help but snicker. Glancing up he catches my eye just long enough to offer a goofy grin and a mumbled, "sorry," before he slips out of his soppy shoes.

"I'd offer you something to change into, but I'm a little low on pants that aren't a women's size two."

"Two? You need to eat something girl."

I shake my head and laugh. That's exactly what my brothers tell me. "C'mon," I say, heading into the kitchen. I figure the linoleum can handle his puddles more than my carpet. "You want something to drink?" I ask over my shoulder as he follows me through the doorway, socks sloshing.

"Uh, yeah, sure, what do you got?"

I open the refrigerator and start to tell him…beer, cola, OJ…but stop short when I hear a loud _thud_. "Are you okay?" I ask going over to help him up. I offer my hand and feel his clammy skin on mine, his fingers barely brushing past mine before he grabs on, softly, gently, to my wrist. I do the same and pull up, help him to his feet, and quickly lurch forward and snatch his elbow with my other hand when his foot slips out from under him again.

"Slippery," he says, embarrassed, as he steadies himself. I pull out a chair for him and turn away so he doesn't see me laugh, as though he actually thought I could keep a straight face through that. I left the fridge open and move to shove the door shut when he says, "Hot chocolate?" When I glance over at him he's leaning across the table and peering in my nearly empty mug.

"Yeah," I say and feel my cheeks start to burn. "Silly…"

"You have any more?"

"Yeah," I say. "I can make some more." He smiles at me and…_looks_ at me. He doesn't smirk or offer that you-know-you-want-me grin like he had when we first met. No, he just smiles and looks at me, sees me. And I feel the blush burn even hotter in my face, the rest of my body flush.

"This is a nice place," he says, seeming sincere, as I pour some more milk into the pan on the stove. I laugh and he counters with, "Compared to some of the places I've stayed over the years, this little house looks like paradise."

"Right smack dab in the middle of Hell."

I don't know if that was the wrong thing to say, if it…I don't know…offended him or something, or if he just doesn't know how to respond. But he's silent for awhile and so am I as I stir up the cocoa. "You don't like it here?" he asks suddenly, quietly.

I don't know, not really. "I don't know."

"Because you don't like it here? Or because you just don't like not being _there_?"

"I never said I didn't like it."

"No, you said you don't know. Which is the same thing."

"No it's not," I say spinning around to face him. He gives me a knowing look and I feel myself blanche before turning back to the stove. He doesn't know me. _You don't know me, Dean._ But somehow, it feels like he does.

"So which is it?"

The cocoa sends a thick cloud of steam around my hands as I pour it into the cups. Stirring, stirring, stirring, I don't answer him, although I don't know if it's because I'm trying to ignore him, or because I just plain don't want him to know. Or if _I _just plain don't know. When I hand him his mug and sit down across from him he shifts in his chair, leans back with his arms folded across his chest, his wet shirt squeaking against the wooden back. Then he raises his eyebrows at me, clearly an 'answer the damn question' sort of look. And to my surprise, it works.

"I like it here…sometimes. I like my job. I have a few friends. I like my dinky little rental home." I stop, hoping that's enough, and blow on my hot chocolate. But he doesn't move, just waits for me to go on. "I miss my family, if that's what you want to know."

He sits upright and wraps his hands around the mug in front of him. Without looking up at me, he says, "Why don't you go back then?" And right away I can tell that this isn't about me at all.

Last night Sam told me, when Dean was in the bathroom, how much he was looking forward to law school, how excited he was. We talked about it for a few minutes, his plans, what classes he was taking, where he was going to live, what about Palo Alto he missed the most. But as soon as Dean came back to the table, he clammed up.

"My life," I start and search for the words I want to use next. "My life took me here." He scoffs and I duck my head, try to think of the right thing to say. But how do you explain to someone that even though it hurts to be away from the ones you love, sometimes you just have to be? To be yourself, to find out who _you_ are.

I take a long sip and burn my tongue, and when I look back up, mostly to make sure he didn't see me sputter, I notice the look on his face. Crumpled, defeated. Alone. I know it well. "Sam's leaving," he says softly, staring down at his cocoa.

"When?"

"Few days." He sighs and leans back again, looks up at me. "He's got some kind of job. A _real_ job." He says _real_ like it's a dirty word, like escaping _to _reality instead of _from_ it is the worse thing a person can do. And I don't know that I totally disagree. The real world sucks, most of the time. But not all of the time. And clearly not for Sam. Law school, a _real_ job, sharing an apartment with his roommate from junior year, these are things he wants. They're things he's somehow managed to find. They're things that don't _really_ include Dean.

Without thinking I reach for his hand, rest my palm on top of his fingers. And he lets me.

"You know why I came here?" I say, forgetting all about the long and involved Joe-centric conversation we had last night.

"Some jackass boyfriend," he says with a smirk.

"Okay, yeah, mostly it was because of him." I take a deep breath and lace my fingers through his. He squeezes them gently as I speak. "I left because of me too, because I…I had to…find myself." I know it sounds corny and contrived, and it kind of is, but it's the truth all the same. And he must realize that because I don't hear the chuckle I expected.

"And did you?" he asks.

I smile. "It's a process, I think."

"A process," he says with a sigh.

I don't know that I want to say what I'm about to say. I don't know that I should. I mean, I barely know this guy, but…there's something about him, and about his…manner?…that makes me feel drawn to him. Like we're two peas in a pod. "My whole life I've taken care of my family." I pull my hand out of his grasp and take another drink. "Even before my parents died. Ben's my baby brother, so it was always up to me to help him, watch out for him." The chair makes a shrill grating noise as I push away from the table. "And Tommy was always getting in trouble, just how he was. Until they died, and all of a sudden he was responsible for me and Ben."

I walk over to the counter and lean my hip up against it, then I look away from Dean, whose face shows too much care and concern for me to take right now. "He really shaped up. But ultimately – and I don't think either of them would really argue with this – I was the one who was responsible for everything. I paid the bills. I made sure Ben got off to school everyday and did his homework every night. I kept Tommy in line, or tried to at least." I shake my head a bit and turn back to the table. "That time…when you and Sam helped us…and he had been camping with his friends? He did that a lot. I mean he always kept in touch, he was always there when we really needed him. But he still wasn't _there_ a lot. You know?" He nods so I go on. "And it used to make me kind of mad. But I get it now. He needed to get away and have a life of his own. And now Ben's doing it too, going to college. But me…I spent so long taking care of them that I didn't even realize I could have a piece of life all to myself. They were my life. So I started looking for other things, hobbies or jobs. I never went to college. I never even thought about what I'd do in the future, probably because the present took so much time and energy to get through. It was pretty overwhelming, I guess. Then I met Joe and _he _became my life."

I sigh and hop up onto the counter, let my feet dangle and knock into the cabinets below. "But that wasn't right either, because I was just trading one person – well, two people – for another. It still wasn't about _me_. I don't know, it probably isn't now, it might never be. But…" I look over at him and lock eyes, stare into his with an intensity I can feel burning even in my toes. "You can't define yourself through others. You can't live just for them. No matter how much you love them, no matter how much you _think_ you need them and _want_ them to need you. You just can't."

He breaks his eyes away from mine and looks down at his hands, sniffles just a little. I'm sure he won't cry in front of me, but part of me wants him to. Maybe if he does I'll feel a little less stupid about being such a crybaby myself. Maybe if he lets loose a little, I might be able to give myself permission to do the same. Because, really, even as I say the words, I wonder how much of it is true and how much is just a bunch of self-help philosophical bullshit I've managed to convince myself of.

When he speaks it's barely a whisper and I would have to strain to hear except that I don't. I already know what he feels because I feel the same. "I don't know how." He looks up at me and his glassy eyes are pleading from under the red lids. I want to tell him that he doesn't have to say anything more. But he does. "I'm my father's son," he says with another sniffle. "I'm Sam's brother, his…I take care of him." He roughly wipes the back of his hand across his eyes to get rid of the unshed tears before they start to trickle down his face. "But he doesn't need me anymore. Neither does Dad, I don't think. Not that that…" he stops and scoffs, puts on a smirk and straightens himself up in the chair.

"I saved you," he says louder and more composed. But it's all forced. "I saved you and your brothers and a ton of other people. Because that's what I do. Because they need me." I try to speak, but no words come. He gets up and grabs his mug, sets it down in the sink at my side. He's close enough to me that I can smell the sweaty rainy odor of his skin. I can feel the heat and moisture radiating from his body; it's a welcome sort of humidity for someone who's been in the desert so long.

"What do _you_ need, Dean?" I ask, the words spilling from my lips. He shakes his head like he doesn't know, like he can't possibly figure it out. And without realizing I've even made the move, my hand lands on his cheek. He bows into it, ducking his head as though, if he tries hard enough he might be able to curl up inside it and lose himself in my embrace. And as soon as I see him do that, feel him shift beneath my palm, I know that I want to lose myself in him.

His cheeks are hot. I move my other hand up so that I cup his face like I might a small child, like I did to Ben when he was scared or Tommy when he felt too guilty to know how to say 'I'm sorry'. Now I do it for Dean, who doesn't seem to know how to say anything at all. So I don't make him. I just hold his head in my hands, brush away the few stray tears with the pads of my thumbs, and lean into him a little more. Our foreheads meet and I can feel his hot sticky breath on my chin. His hands come to rest on top of mine, and when I feel his fingers gently stroke mine – knuckle to tip, knuckle to tip – I look up and into his eyes.

And we kiss. Soft at first, hesitant even. Then harder, stronger, and at the same time our bodies press into one another. I wrap my legs around his waist to bring him closer and he moves fluidly, and fits into me as though we were made to go together. When my right hand migrates to the back of his head, my fingers weaving through his hair, his hand does the same to me. If I pull back, he follows, inching closer. If _he_ does, I do the same. And so we teeter-totter back and forth, each giving up a little control to the other for just a moment before taking it back. We move in tandem, all the same, yet play the role of the necessary opposite, like two puzzle pieces that look nothing alike but fit together perfectly.

There's a tiny voice inside my head that reminds me I swore off men, decided to try things on my own for a while. But that voice is quickly drown out when Dean's hand leaves my hair and slowly moves down my back, sending tiny shock waves up and down my spine. I pull my lips away from his and use them instead to trace a line from his chin to his neck, then back again. I feel his fingers move under my shirt, undo the hook of my bra and brush against my bare skin. In turn I pull at his T-shirt, try to peel the wet cotton away from him, off of him.

When my lips move down to his now bare shoulder I feel his hot breath on my ear. "I need you," he says in a deep whisper. And I raise my mouth up to meet his again.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

_Author's Note: Yay, another chapter! Fair warning, a bit of agnst this way comes. And just to let you know, since some ppl may have been a bit concerned about the whole Dean/Haley thing...I have no real intention of turning this into a romance. Whatever happens with Dean, he needs to figure stuff out on his own, not just get caught up in someone else's life to keep from dealing with his. That said, he is a ladies man, so I can't imagine him getting close to a woman without wanting to, you know, get _close_ to her. Anywhoo, on with the story!_

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**Dean's POV:**

What do I need? What do _I_ need?

Fuck, I don't know!

All I know is five minutes ago I felt…wrong. Bad. Sad. Mad. Not to get too Dr. Suess-y. And now…this? This feels…right. When she touches my face, it's like…I don't know, man. No one's ever touched me like that, no woman I met in a bar, no girl I dated in high school. Not even Cassie. I loved her, yeah, but warmth, comfort?…not exactly her strong suit. But that's what Haley's touch feels like, pure warmth, and comfort. And it makes me want to cry, and laugh, and smile, and die. All at once. She touches me and it's like I finally figured out what I was missing all those years, all this time. Touch.

"I need you," I whisper to her. And I mean it too. And she leans into me and kisses me hard, tugging on my bottom lip with her teeth. And I love it.

But then she stops. She pulls back and looks me in the eye and says, "No, you don't," and for a minute I have no idea what she's talking about. She shakes her head and says it again. "You don't need me, Dean." She smiles but I can tell it's not a happy smile.

"Right now, I do." She looks away and I start kissing her neck.

"Wait," she says, but it's more like a moan and she's not letting go, so…

"No."

"Dean," she says, but I can hear a little giggle behind my name, and still, she doesn't let go or move away.

"No means no," I say before pulling her closer to me. She's almost off the counter and with her legs wrapped around me, I'm the only thing holding her up. So I slip my hands underneath her and cup her ass.

"You really want to use a phrase associated with rape right now?" she asks and immediately I stop. I move my hands and her feet fall into the cabinets below while she shimmies back onto the counter top. I throw my hands up in defense and take a step back. "I didn't mean it like that." She pulls her arm into her shirt and…takes off her bra, pulls it out her other sleeve and tosses it over onto the kitchen table. God help me.

"You…" is all I can get out.

"I just want to be clear," she says, swinging her feet back and forth. She starts tapping her fingers on the counter, drumming out some kind of fast paced beat, and I feel my heart climb to the same rhythm. "What we were talking about before…"

I cut her off, putting my hand over her mouth. She bites me. "Ow." I pull back while she laughs and shake it off. "You like it rough then?" I ask and she smirks, like she's trying not to smile but just can't help it. I put my hands on her knees and pry her legs apart again, lean into her and say, "That's fine by me. So you know, my safety word is Jellybean."

"Dean, I'm serious." She pulls back some and swats at my chest, playfully I think. And I lean back to let her speak. Least I can do, right? "I know it's kind of a mood killer, talking about your brother…" Ugh, no shit. I groan and snap my eyes shut. No images, please no images. "But, I want to make sure you understand what I was saying. Because I think it's important that you do. Understand."

I don't know why I came here in the first place. I sure as hell don't know why I stood outside my car in the pouring rain for twenty minutes before I made myself go and ring her doorbell. I totally understand why I'm all over her, and it's pretty obvious why she's so into me, I mean, come on. But this? This…this…conversation? Man!

Before I know it I'm sitting back at her table, away from her, _turned_ away from her, sulking. "I don't want to be your therapist, Dean. Or, I don't know, you spiritual advisor or you school guidance counselor, or anything in between. I don't want to tell you how to live your life."

"Then don't." I don't mean it to sound as harsh as it does. At least I don't think I do.

She doesn't seem to care one way or the other though. "I just think…I think we have a lot in common. And I want to help you."

"I don't need your help. _Help_ is not what I need from you," I say, trying for that winning smile. But she shrugs it off and looks at me seriously, a little too seriously. "What?" I ask, and she just shakes her head before looking away.

"I know it's hard. When everything you ever know…changes. When you look around and realize you're on your own and – "

"I'm not on my own."

"Sam's going back to school. He's leaving."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, I know – "

"You know? You know what it's like to have the only person you could ever really count on up and leave? Cause from where I'm sitting it looks like you've got no fucking clue what that's like, seeing as how you're the one who took off on your family."

Her legs stop swinging and her head hangs low. She doesn't move and doesn't speak and I'm glad. What right does she have to lay down this self-help hippie bullshit? So she misses her family, so the fuck what? She doesn't know what it was like, growing up with Sam, taking care of him, trying to put myself between him and Dad all the time. I did everything for that kid and he shows his appreciation by turning his back and running away? Forget it. I'm over it. He doesn't want this life. Fine. I can't make him stay and, really, if he really doesn't want to, well then I don't want him to either. I just wish…I just want…

"You're right." It takes me a minute to even realize she's talking, but when I look up at her she's staring right at me and she says it again, "You're right." I nod, because, duh, of course I'm right. "I did leave. And I didn't do it for them. I did it for me. Because I needed to see if I was anyone without them. I needed to _be _someone without them. Maybe that does make us different. Maybe that makes me more like Sam. But that doesn't mean that I don't still love my family more than anything, or miss them so much it hurts. It doesn't mean that I don't regret my decision at least once a day. So don't think that it does."

She looks like she's about to cry and…man, I hate when women cry. If the things I hunted knew that, if they could figure out a way to turn themselves into bawling chicks just as I'm getting ready to end them, they'd come out on top for sure. I don't what her to cry. I didn't mean to hurt her feelings or imply that she didn't love her brothers. Well, maybe I did a little, but now it's kind of backfiring. I want to say I'm sorry, tell her I was just angry and I didn't mean it, but I can't. My mouth won't form those words. "I don't want to be something without him," I say instead. "I like what I am. I like the way things are."

"Yeah, but Sam doesn't."

"Yeah, well…"

"You two were really close growing up? You took care of him?"

"Always."

She nods and wipes some tears out of her eyes, turning away like maybe I won't see or won't know what she's doing. But when she looks back she seems a little better and when she speaks her voice isn't all wobbly anymore. "Even parents have to let go sometime. Let the little birdie leave the nest."

"It's not like that."

"You cared for him, kept him safe, helped raise him?"

"Yeah."

"So in a way, you're like his parent?"

"Yeah, but – "

"So you should be proud of what he's doing. You should _want_ to see him grow and go become a whole person. You should be – "

"It's not like that!" I slam my fist on the table and she shuts up. I have to glance over at her to make sure I didn't scare her. I don't think I really did, but I mumble a "sorry" anyway. "I'm not his parent." She doesn't say anything and I know she's expecting me to go on, but I'm not really sure what to say. I _am_ proud of him. I _do_ want him to be a whole person or whatever. I want him to have a life, and love his life. I just want to be a part of that life. And not just a monthly phone call, checking in just to make sure you're still alive, kind of part either. "I'm his brother," is all I can think to say.

She hops off the counter and pulls up a chair next to me, puts her hand on my knee and does that, that…thing again. I can barely remember my mom, to be honest. Most of what I remember are just kind of recycled stories from my dad, or made-up ones from my dreams. I like to think she hugged me a lot, kissed the top of my head, held my hand when we walked to the park. I like to think she was the kind of mom who would pick me up and carry me around everywhere if I asked her to, even if I was too big and she was too tired or busy. I'm sure she was that kind of mom, I just can't really remember any of it. For years I'd pretend she was still with me. When I couldn't sleep at night I'd imagine her fingers running through my hair. When I was sick or scared, I could feel her hand rub circles on my back. That was the only gentle touch I ever got. My dad might slap me. Sam would grab my arm and tug at me. Countless women would tongue and maul me, and all kinds of ghosts and demons would toss me into walls or magically strangle me. But no one ever just touched me.

I look down at her hand on my knee and…damn it…I can feel that choking sensation in the back of my throat, the burning underneath my eyes. I have to close them. I will not cry like a chick, especially not in front of one. "He's my brother," I say, although I don't remember thinking it, and it doesn't really sound like me. "He's my brother."

"I know." She leans over and hugs me. And I let her.

He's my brother. He should _want_ to be around me. He should _want _to be there for me. He should _want_ to make sacrifices for me. I gave up everything for him. I didn't get to play outside with other kids because I had to stay in and watch him, change his diapers, make his meals, give him his baths. I let him watch Thundercats even though Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was on. And they could have kicked some serious Thundercat ass. I had to eat cold pizza for breakfast instead of the Lucky Charms I wanted. Because _he_ wanted them, so he got them. Just like _he_ wanted mushrooms on the pizza, even though they're totally gross and I'd have to pick them all off. I wore dirty clothes when we didn't have the time or the quarters to do more than one load of laundry. I stepped in front of Dad's fists for him on more than one occasion, took the blame for things he really _should_ have gotten the crap beaten out of him for, like sneaking out and getting drunk with some kids he barely knew when he was fifteen. But I covered for him, just like I always do. I took care of him, just like I always have. And what does he give me in return? A great big, steaming pile of nothing.

I pull away and she lets me, drops her arms and just sits there, waiting I guess. "You need to think about this, Dean," she says. "You need to think about what you're life could be like. If it didn't revolve around Sam or, you know, monsters and things."

"I don't know what I'd do without monsters and things," I say with a laugh.

She only smiles. "Maybe you should give it a shot. You might like it."

"Like what? Being _normal_? Not for me."

"How do you know if you never tried?"

"Hunting's all I've ever known."

"Yeah, that's kind of my point."

"It's the only thing I'm good at."

"I doubt that." I shake my head, no, it's true, it _is_ the only thing. But she stops me, grabs my chin and keeps me from moving. "You know what I think? I think you're scared." I let out a chuckle, but she doesn't seem to buy it. "I _know_ you're scared. But that's okay. I'm scared. Right now, leaving you, going back to school, Sam's probably pretty scared too. It's all part of life."

"You think you're so smart," I say, and she laughs.

"Yeah, I do." She gets up and picks up my soggy shirt, tosses it in my lap. Not what I'd been hoping for, but I guess the mood has kind of…shifted. I put it back on, all wet and gross, it sticks to my ribs. "You should get back and change into some dry clothes before you catch pneumonia."

"It's like a hundred degrees out," I say as I follow her to the door.

"It's like seventy-five degrees out, that's cool enough."

"Yes, mother." She wraps the big red beach towel around my shoulders and leans in to kiss my cheek. I let her before moving, trapping her lips with mine. We kiss like before, long, smooth, and gentle.

"You're such a perv," she says when she finally pulls away.

"Takes one to know one." I lean in for another kiss, but she pinches my shoulder instead. "Ow. That wasn't very nice."

"You're a sexual predator."

"And you love it." She smacks me upside the head, a little harder than necessary, I think, and I jump back.

"Get out of here," she says, laughing. And when I don't move she pinches me again and keeps doing it even as I start out the door.

The whole time I flail my arms, trying to grab her pinching hands that keep moving around my back. "Ow, ow. Jellybean! Jellybean!" I say while she laughs. And I'll be dammed, but as I walk back to my car in the newly dry air, I can't help but laugh too.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

_A/N: Yay, an update! This one's not too exciting, but it is a necessary component. I just want to say thank you, thank you, thank you for all the reviews! I love it when you guys tell me how you really feel, both rewarding and inspiring...not to sound too incredibly cheesey. Anywhoo, go on and read now, and leave me a little input when you're done!_

**Sam's POV:**

Who came up with Go Fish? I mean, it doesn't even make sense, grammatically speaking. You can fish, and you can go fishing, and you can go and fish, but you can't go fish. Can you? Maybe you can, but I don't think you're supposed to. I think it's just managed to leak its way into colloquial terminology because of this stupid, stupid game. "Go fish," she says again, for the thousandth time. And I do. And I don't get what I need. And she, of course, does. And I lose. To a little girl. Again.

"Come on Cal-girl," Sal says as she sweeps into the room. "Time for bed."

Callie, who's now standing on the chair with her arms raised above her head cheering victoriously says, "But I'm winning," and begins to pout.

Sal picks her up and sets her down, giving her a tap on the butt while telling her to brush her teeth and change into her PJ's. "So," she says, falling into the chair across from me, "she kicked your ass, huh?" I lift my head up off the table just long enough to nod self-consciously. "Well, don't feel too bad about it. She's a little card shark. Now if only she could teach her daddy some of her tricks, maybe then he wouldn't be losing money every time he plays _anything_." She laughs, that great, light, wispy laugh, and before I know it I'm joining in. "So where's you brother?" she asks while gathering the cards laid out across the table.

"Oh." I'm not really sure what to say. _I don't know, but I'm sure he's fine, everything's fine. _Or maybe, _I don't know and I'm starting to get worried_. Or I could use, _I don't know, even though if I were a better brother I probably would_. I go with, "I don't know," and leave it at that.

She shuffles the cards, does the bridge thing perfectly, over and over again. Expert. I watch her hands move fluidly over and in between the cards, doing tricks I've never even seen before. Her fingers perfectly, methodically, fall into place exactly where they're needed. I just watch, and she shuffles, and neither one of us says a word. Until she finally looks up at me and smiles. And I can tell it was all a show, even though she doesn't want me to know. I can tell she was perfectly aware that I was watching the whole time. "I used to be a dealer," she says with faux modesty. I laugh.

"That's where Callie gets it from then," I say, no longer quite as embarrassed about being hustled by a kid.

She puts down the deck and turns to me, her mood obviously shifted. "You two have a fight?" I look at her for a minute, try to figure out how she knows. "I saw him storm off earlier, out to his car." She shrugs. "Just figured." I nod, not really meaning to acknowledge anything beyond an understanding of what she's saying. "I thought about coming down and talking to ya then, but Callie beat me to it."

"She's good company to have," I say, and it's true. Something about being with kids…I don't know if it's mind numbing or mind clearing. But either way it takes your mind off of things.

"Black Jack?" she asks, already dealing.

I look at my cards, a two and a…five. "Hit me."

"You know," she says as she lays down my next card, "when Dean was here, back in the day, he talked about you a lot."

Another five. "Really?" She nods, looking at her cards, probably just to avoid looking at me. "Hit me again," I say finally, and she gives me a _you sure?_ kind of look before handing over another card. King of spades. "Fold. What did he say?"

"Little things mostly. Callie was real young then and every so often she'd do something cute or just plain stupid, you know, baby stupid, and he'd just laugh and say that was just like Sam." She deals again. "I assumed he meant when you were younger, not that you were still at that point giggling about puking on people."

"Actually…" She laughs while I check out my cards. Ten and…nine. Nice. "Call." She flips hers over, Queen and King. I always hated monarchies.

"He really missed you. That's what I remember most about him talking about you. That look he got, you know the one…longing." Another hand. Ace and…five. "But he was so proud of you. Every chance he got he'd mention Stanford. Name dropping like that, terrible trait." I laugh and nod when she offers me another card. Seven. "He mentioned you didn't call much."

I look up at her, meet her eyes and immediately see that she didn't intend to be accusing. But it still feels that way. "Hit me," I say, looking away. "We kind of had a falling out," I try to explain. "Not me and Dean as much as me and my dad. He was just kind of caught in the middle." I fold again. She collects the spent cards and shuffles. "I should have called him more. But he was with Dad a lot…and I didn't want to…I couldn't…"

"You know what they say, you can't control who you fall in love with." What? I look at her questioningly, but she doesn't even glance up from the deck. She just deals and goes on. "I learned that when I met Jake. We're very different, ya know. Maybe that's why I love him so much, or part of it anyway. But we come from very different backgrounds, different places. But, oh, do I love that man." She sits back for a second and is silent, like she can't come up with any more words, like there just plain _are_ no words for what she feels. My chest tightens, right in the middle, right where I know it's nothing, just anxiety or stress. But it's close enough to my heart that I can pretend it's the ache of it. No-words love. God, I want that back.

I feel her eyes on me and instead of looking up to meet them I glance at my cards. "Hit."

She lays down an eight. Eight, eight, and eight. What are the odds of that? I fold…again, and she goes on. "When I left home for college, it was tough. Being away from Mama and Daddy like that. But it's just school, ya know. I figured I'd probably come back. Maybe go somewhere else, but that was all in the future. Then, in school…well that was just it. I wasn't gone, I was just away at school." This time she deals me a ten and a Queen and I feel my back straighten in anticipation. "Anyway, when I met Jake and we fell in love and decided to get married, we chose to come here and build our life here. _Our Life_. Then I really was leaving home, and Mama and Daddy. For good."

"Yeah, but you can still visit, and they can come see you."

"Oh, we do all that. And we talk all the time. Mama writes us all letters, she's very ladylike like that. Says it's a lost art form." She shakes her head sadly. "But it's not the same." I notice her appraise me quickly before saying, with a crooked smile, "Call." I lay out my cards and she lays out hers, a four, a six, and an ace. Damn.

"That's life though, right? I mean kids grow up, they move out, have families of their own."

"Yes they do. That is life. But no one ever said life ain't tough." I nod while she deals again. "Thing is, Sam, you don't get to pick who your family is either. And that…well, that…"

"Sucks," I finish for her.

"Very much so. Sucks." She lays down the cards and puts her hand on top of mine. Warm and soft, it's exactly what I imagine a mother's hand to be. "I know y'all had it rough growing up. Dean mentioned that. But you had each other too." She pats my hand gently before pulling away to look at her cards. "Thing is, with the two of you…well, I don't know about you, but Dean…I'm fairly certain that if you could actually pick your family, he'd choose you. Even with everything…you know. And that's saying something, I think."

I have two Jacks. She has a King and an Ace. What the Hell?

"You're not very good at this," she says, trying to hide a laugh. I sit and watch as she gathers up the cards and puts them back in their box. "I'm gonna go tuck my little monster in."

She leaves the room and I can't help but notice how empty it suddenly feels. Sal's the kind of person who somehow manages to fill a room up just by being in it. She steps away and not two seconds later you can actually _feel_ her absence. Dean is like that. It's what draws people to him, women, children, everyone. Me, I have to work to get stuff out of people, put on some fake charm and work the whole puppy-dog pout. But Dean, even when he's being a total ass, he exudes this kind of magnetic…well, charm. Shit. Note to self: never tell Dean you think he's charming. He's got a big enough head already.

I know Sal's right. I know he'd always choose me to be his brother. I'm not sure why. All my life he's whined about how embarrassing I am, what a dork and a loser and a pain in the ass. And I know he's not lying. I am kind of a dork. Growing up I definitely was a loser. And to him, usually on purpose, I can be quite a pain in the ass. That's my job as a little brother though, not sure what his excuse is. But even with all of that, I know he loves me. And I know he'd choose to love me, if he had the choice, no matter how much pain it might cause him.

I just wish it didn't…cause him pain.

"Hey." Speak of the devil. I jerk my head up and see him standing in the doorway, soaking wet.

"What happened?" I ask, getting to my feet.

"Rain," he says simply. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Didn't get wet enough?"

"You have no idea," he says with a smile and I feel my head cock to one side in confusion. He just laughs, which I take as a good sign. He's in a better mood. And he doesn't reek of alcohol, so at least I know it's not just that he's drunk.

"Listen, Dean," I start, but he cuts me off, throwing his hand up to stop me.

"We only got a couple days left, Sammy. I suggest you start thinking about what you want to do here, other than chilling with sci-fi geeks and, you know, almost getting yourself killed by flying chunks of wood." He smiles that awkward crooked smile and…I don't know what happened, where he went, or…but I can tell he's really trying. _Really_ trying to be okay with all this. So I smile back, even if it somehow feels wrong to do so.

"Sam!" Sal runs into the kitchen in a frenzy. Her feet are only in socks and as soon as she hits the wood floor she starts slipping and sliding, skidding right into Dean's arms. She looks up at him for a sec, I guess just registering that he's there, that he caught her. Then she pulls away with a disgusted look washing quickly over her face, her fingers gingerly pluck the sopping shirt from his chest. I can see that she's curious about his…condition, but it doesn't last. Whatever brought her in here is clearly more important.

"What?" She whips around so fast to see me that Dean catches a clump of hair in his mouth. He sputters and picks at a loose strand of it while she makes her way over to me, eyes wide.

"Is this yours?" She speaks so fast that all the syllables cram together and I barely understand her. "I found it in the bag with the bread and I just watched and…" I look down as she presses a piece of paper into my hand. "You won. Ten minutes ago I would have told never to gamble for as long you live, you're terrible. But you won."

"Won what?" Dean asks as he moves closer.

I look at the piece of paper Sal gave me. It's the lottery ticket I bought yesterday. I'd forgotten all about it. "You didn't get all the numbers," she says, prattling on like before. "But you got enough. I'm not sure how much exactly, but at least a few hundred. I think it should be that, at least a few hundred."

"Huh," Dean says as he grabs the ticket from me, "Nice Sammy, few hundred bucks."

"No," Sal almost bellows, loud and deep. "No. A few hundred _thousand _bucks."


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

_Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to update, I was kind of blocked, still am a little, hence the shortness of this chapter. But it is a chapter none the less. So please, do read and enjoy!_

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**Dean's POV:**

$650,000. _Six hundred and fifty, thousand dollars._

That's enough money to put Sammy through school with no worries. Hell, it's enough to put all the dozens of doe-eyed kids I'm sure he wants to have through school. Hell, it's enough…

"Dean!"

Huh, what? "Why're you yelling?"

"Because you didn't answer the first ten times I said your name." Ten times, yeah, sure Sammy, whatever you say.

"Well, maybe I didn't hear you."

"Maybe."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Maybe."

"That's what I said."

"Whatever."

I don't get it. He just won a shit load of money and now he's standing in front of me all moody and mopey with his arms crossed over his chest like some kind of pouty kindergartner. And why? Because I wasn't paying attention? Hello, bigger things going on here, Champ. "What?" I ask. "What is that look for?"

He shakes his head at me and finally sits down, which is a relief because he's been pacing back and forth for like twenty minutes. "You're such an ass."

How's that now? "Excuse me?"

"Fine, maybe not an ass – "

"Yeah, _maybe_," I interrupt.

But as usual, he doesn't seem to think I'm very funny. "Then again, maybe you are," he says under his breath. And before I can respond he shoots out, "You're definitely the most immature – no, juvenile – person that I know."

"Yeah, well, you don't get out much."

This time when he starts shaking his head at me I can tell it's because he's trying to hide a smile. "What I was going to say," he starts while unfolding his arms and stretching them out towards the table, "is that it's not all my money." He puts his hands down and starts tapping his fingers. _Tap, tap, tappity tap_. It's one of those things he does when he gets nervous. Over the years I've figured out what beats mean what. The slow and sharp taps come when he's scared. Fast and hectic are for antsy. Short and hard sign a mix between anger and impatience. This was light and actually had a tempo. This was excitement. This was him barely being able to contain some kind of secret.

I cock my head in his direction and say the only thing that comes to mind, even though I know it's not right. "You mean taxes?" He shakes his head no and looks up at me. What the hell are you up to, Sam?

"Half that money's yours, man."

Come again? Hey I'm all for sharing. Don't think I wasn't ready and willing to mooch off the kid a little. But half? No way, it's not my ticket. "No way, it's not my ticket."

"Oh, come on," he says getting up _again_ and moving over to me. "You didn't really think I'd keep it all, did you?"

"Not all."

"Dean I never even would have bought that ticket if it wasn't for you."

"What?"

"If you wouldn't have been such an ass to that girl behind the counter, I never would have tried to make her feel better by playing the lotto." I can't believe this logic.

"So you gonna give her some too. I mean you wouldn't have done it if not for trying to cheer her up."

"Good point," he says, and for a minute I feel ready to slap him. But then he laughs and I know he's not serious, thank God. "Look," he sputters through chuckles, "you're my brother and I want you to have the money. So you're going to take the money."

I look at him seriously. I don't take charity, never do, never would, especially not from Sam. But there's something in his face, in his eyes. It's like those times when we were kids and he'd give me some kind of horrible little noodle necklace or construction paper penguin or something, crap he made at school and was told to take home and give to his parents. Only Dad just would have thrown it away, and we both knew it. So he gave them to me, and I kept it all and patted him on the back, and told him how great it was and how much I appreciated it. And every time he'd look at me like he's looking at me now, like he's giving me this great gift and now he's just waiting to see how I'll react, if I'll like it as much as he hopes I will.

I can't crush his spirit like that, right? It would be…wrong. So I take my turn at the self-conscious head shaking and look over to him, his face all expectant smiles. "So, I treat a kid like crap and you want to give me a few hundred thousand dollars for it? Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. You're like the worst Karma cop on the planet."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Does to me."

He bites his lip and I know he's relieved. Maybe he thought I'd say no, wouldn't accept it. Or maybe he thought I'd get really excited and give him a big weepy hug or something. Nah, he wouldn't be relieved about that, he'd probably like it, the big girl. "I have to collect the money, obviously. And I won't get it all at once. So I'll just keep your share until whenever and then send it your way."

"Oh, you'll keep my share? What are you, my pimp?"

He rolls his eyes. "I just think it would be a little suspicious if I went and cashed in half the money every time I got a payment and sent it to someone who, let's face it, doesn't even exist."

"I resent that. I exist. I just happen to be dead." According to the cops in St. Louis, anyway.

"You know," he says, narrowing his eyes like he's got some kind of _idea_, "it might not be a good idea for me to send it to you anyway. I mean _that_ would be suspicious, sending thousands of dollars to some P.O. Box every month. Nope, you'd better just come out to California to get it, you know, whenever you feel like visiting." You little shit.

"Now you're bribing me? Sammy, where did you learn such things?"

He shrugs and heads to the fridge, pulls out a couple beers. "I gotta be sure you'll come and see me sometime," he says while handing one to me.

"And you think the only way I'll go visit is if you offer me cash?" I admit, it doesn't hurt, but still. He shrugs again and downs a swig. "Seriously?" He looks at me and I see that he is serious. He doesn't think I'll come out there to see him. And I don't know, maybe he's right. Truthfully, I hadn't really given it much thought. I mean, he's the one leaving, so he must not really want me around that much anyway. Right?

"It's just…you never really came out the first time around, when I was at Stanford. And I know you were probably close enough at least a few times, hunting in the area. But you never came." I couldn't. I thought he knew that. I couldn't go see him and see his new life, that I wasn't a part of, and then go back to mine when the visit was over. I just couldn't. It was easier to do without, just put him out of my mind as much as possible and move on.

I open my beer but can't quite muster the strength to bring the bottle to my mouth for a drink. So I just stand there, beer in one hand, bottle cap in the other, and say nothing. What do I say?

Things are different this time, yeah. His leaving, it's not as…tense. And I won't have Dad hounding me about cutting him out of my life. Hell, he'll probably even visit him from time to time, once he gets out of rehab. He might even stay for a while, if he really manages to give up hunting like he says. But me? It'd just be too hard I think. As much as I don't want him to leave, I know he has to go, I know it's what's best for him. And I know the life he'll lead, the one he'll build, it'll be something great, no matter what. Because Sammy's meant for greatness. I've always known that.

And I know I have to let him go, even if I don't want to. But then to come back and visit? See him and his perfect little life – 'cause I'm sure it'll be perfect – and watch everything from the outside. Cause that's where I'll be, you know, on the outside, looking in. And there's no way around it. We share too much of a past. We've been too close to ever be those weekend barbecue kind of brothers, the ones who sit around every few months and talk about nothing over some beers. Then they say goodbye and don't even feel it, and go on with everything, not even remembering to call, not even thinking about it, until a few more months pass. Then they'll do it all over again. That'll never be us.

But I look over at him now, my baby brother, and his shoulders are slumped like he's the most beaten down person in the world. And I know it's because of me, of us. Because he knows it too, that we won't ever have a 'normal' sibling relationship. We're either together or apart, there's no in between. He knows that as well as I do.

"Sam," I say without really thinking through where I'm headed, "you don't have to bribe me. I'll visit you all the time." I don't know where it came from, I don't even know if it's really a lie. I know it's not entirely the truth, for whatever that's worth. But he looks up at me with that hopeful little puppy face and I hear myself saying, "Don't worry, we'll make it work."

And his face splits into an awkward kind of forced smile. And I feel mine do the same. And we spend the next, I don't know how long, drinking our beers in silence.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: Finally another update, even if it is mostly fluff. Oh, well, it'll move the story along some at least. And it's a breif respite from the overwhelming sort of angst that I know you and both love so much, but really, sometimes need a bit of a break from. I promise I'll try to update soon, but until then, on with the story!

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**Callie's POV**

I couldn't get it all down stairs in one trip. Too much stuff. So I threw some of it, just the soft stuff though. Peter Panda and Joey the Kangaroo and my bright pink bedspread, because Mommy says pink brightens everything up, even your mood. But my jar of pennies and box of cars I had to carry because if Mommy heard them clunk around down the stairs, she'd get mad. She always gets mad over stupid things like that.

I bring everything into the living room and set them up for him. My jar goes on the table and Joey and Peter sit next to him on the couch and then I pull out all the cars and line them up on the table too. And then I give him the blanket. "Because you have to keep warm," I say, and shake my finger at him so he knows I'm serious.

But he just looks at it funny and says, "No thanks, kid. I'm good." And then he sneezes. Again.

"But it'll help," I say, handing him another tissue.

"Yeah, well…" I pout at him, cause that's what I do to my Daddy when he doesn't want to do what I want. Mommy says I have him wrapped around my little finger, which I guess is my pinky because it's the littlest, but I still don't get it. But I know if I frown like that he usually gives in. I hope Dean will too. "It's just that," he says and wipes his nose. But I keep on pouting. "It's pink."

"Duh."

"Callie, I'm a guy. Guy's don't do pink."

"My friend Jason has a shirt and it's pink and it says, 'Real Men Wear Pink'."

"Yeah, well, I'm not Jason." He sneezes again and so I climb up on the couch and pull the bedspread over him whether he likes or not because he's sick and Mommy always says that when you have a cold the best thing to do is rest and stay warm. _And_ she says you have keep a positive attitude. _And_ she says that the color pink always helps brighten her attitude. So it should help Dean's too. He groans some but doesn't kick the blanket off him. Even so, I sit down by his feet so that if he tries I'll be there to tuck him back in. "What is all this stuff anyway?" he asks.

"Well, that," I say pointing, "is Peter Panda. And that's his friend Joey. They're here to help. Cause you're supposed to stay in bed, even though this isn't your bed. But Mommy said you could stay here, so I guess you can. But you're not supposed to get up. Unless you have to go to the bathroom, because they can't help with that. But if you need something else, just tell them and they'll get it for you."

"They will?" he asks while blowing his nose. "Well, in that case guys, I could use some more tissues."

I turn around and grab the box behind me and hand it to him. "Here."

"I thought that was their job."

"Well, the box was behind _me_. You didn't expect them to get up and come all the way over here to get them for you when I could just hand them over, did you?" For an old guy, sometimes Dean doesn't seem like he knows too much. I shake my head at him and he laughs. I don't know why, but I guess it's a good thing because Mommy always says that laughter's the best medicine. "Anyway," I say and point at the table. "Those are my cars because I know you like cars, and you're supposed to be surrounded by pleasant things when you're sick. They help the healing process."

"Surrounded by pleasant things?"

"Yeah. You know, stuff you like. Like cars."

"And it helps the 'healing process'?"

"Yeah." I don't know why he's looking at me like that, like I'm some kind of weirdo or something. Maybe it's the fever. "And this," I say, ignoring him and his look and patting the bedspread instead, "is my most magicalist bedspread."

"Most magicalist?" I wonder if he has trouble hearing. Last time I caught cold I was so stuffed up that everything sounded really funny, like my ears were clogged and stuff kinda echoed and I couldn't hear right. Maybe that's why he keeps asking what I said. I nod. And he says, "What makes it the most magicalist?"

"Well," I say, crossing my legs and getting comfortable, "first off, it's pink."

"I see that."

"And pink brightens everything." He nods so I know he's listening. "And plus, my Daddy gave it to me and he said that if I ever get scared at night all I have to do it duck under it and nothing can get me. But I don't think it works just at night. I think it'll work now too."

"Oh, well, that's good."

"I'm not saying you're scared though." Cause I know he got real upset when everybody made fun of him for being scared of that rat, and I don't want him to think I'm making fun of him. Besides there's nothing scary about having a cold. It just sucks is all. "But, still, it's magic. It'll help make you better."

"You sure about that?"

"Of course. Daddy wouldn't lie and when he put it on my bed he said that it would keep _all_ bad things away. And the sniffles are bad things." I think he actually meant monsters because at the time there was one that kept looking at me from inside the ceiling fan, don't know why. But I thought he might jump out at me. But once I got my pink bedspread he couldn't. Then I think he got bored and went away. But anyway, I'm sure if it'll keep away monsters it'll get rid of icky sickies too.

I look over at Dean and he's looking at me all weird, like he's really sad. So I put my hand on his and ask him what's wrong. But he just shakes his head. I try telling him that if his head hurts Peter can go get him some Tylenol, or if he wants some juice, I'm sure that Joey'll run and get it for him. But he just shakes his head, so I guess that's not what he wants. Sometimes, when Mommy has a headache, she says she just wants some peace and quiet. Maybe that's what Dean wants too. So I just sit there by his feet and be real quiet.

"Callie," he says after a super long time, "what would you do if your mom or dad decided to leave you?" Leave me? Why would they leave me? He's not making sense, and I guess he knows that I know that because he says, "not that they ever would, but I mean, if they did, you know, for some reason…leave…well, what do you think you'd do?"

"What kind of reason?"

"I don't know, because they wanted to do something different, you know, with their lives."

"Like what?"

"I don't," he stops and opens his mouth, throws back his head. I think he thought he was gonna sneeze, but it doesn't come. "I don't know. Maybe they just wanted to do something…else."

"You mean like teaching?"

"Teaching, yeah, like teaching."

I shrug. "They wouldn't have to leave."  
"Say they did."

"But they wouldn't."

"But what if they did?"

"They wouldn't."

"But let's just say…say the only…teaching school…was really far away, so they'd have to go away."

"Both of them?"

"No, not both of them, but…well, yeah, maybe both of them."

"But then I'd be alone."

"Yeah, I know."

"But…" Why would Mommy and Daddy leave me alone? Don't they love me? I'm just a kid. I can't live on my own. I'd die. I can't drive, or cook, or buy groceries. I'd starve to death! I'm not allowed to walk to school yet. I wouldn't ever get to first grade. I don't know how to do laundry! I can't even reach the freezer for popsicles! I'd die!

"Callie, Callie," he says and reaches over to grab my arm. He's all blurry when I see him so I rub my eyes and wipe away some of the tears, but they don't stop coming. Why would they leave me! "Callie, your parents aren't going anywhere. Really, I promise." He says it like he means it, but I don't know.

"You said…"

"Forget what I said. It was stupid. I was just being stupid. They're not going anywhere." I kind of believe him, mostly. I mean, they wouldn't leave, right? Nobody leaves behind the people they love, right? He leans back and closes his eyes and rubs them, says something under his breath, "just make the poor kid cry, Dean. Good one," or something like that. And then he coughs some and sneezes again. And I take one of his tissues and wipe my eyes.

After a few minutes I think we both feel a little better. So I show him my cars and we talk about them a little. I named them all, but he doesn't think that's weird. At least he doesn't say so. "Jason says it's weird," I say real quiet.

"Jason? The kid who wears pink?" He makes a _psh_ noise and says, "He's the weird one." Don't I know it. Once I saw him eat dirt.

"He says that girls shouldn't even play with cars. But I don't _play_ with them. They're collectors."

"Collectibles?"

"Right. I told him, my daddy gave them to me because he likes cars. And so do I. And he can just stay out my business if he's gonna be mean."

"Right on," he says and wipes his nose.

"He even wants to teach people about them. My daddy, not Jason. Jason doesn't know anything about cars."

"He does?"

"No, he doesn't." There's that hearing thing again.

"No, your dad. He wants to teach? He's the one who wants to be a teacher?"

"Yeah, but I don't think he'd have to go away like you said. Would he?"

My voice squeaks when I say it and I think it must scare him or something because he throws his hands up and says, "No, no, I'm sure he wouldn't," real fast, like he has to get it out before I start crying, which I thought I might just do if my daddy did have to leave. But I didn't cry, and he leaned back again and started looking at Stella my '67 Shelby GT. "I just didn't know your dad wanted to do that."

"Oh yeah," I say, putting Stella back in line with the others. "He wants to teach at the high school or something, but he has to run the garage so he can't. He said he wanted to find somebody else to run it, maybe even sell it, but nobody wants to. He said cause it's a small town and all, everybody already has jobs and is 'set in their ways', whatever _that_ means."

"Yeah. Huh." He stops talking and doesn't pick up another car and I almost ask him what's wrong or if he wants some more stuffy nose medicine or a hug, because both of those always make me feel better, but then Mommy comes in and so I don't.

"What are you two up to?" she says smiling.

"I'm making him better," I say, even though right now he doesn't really look any better.

"I'll bet you are," she says to me. Then she turns to Dean, "Of course, if somebody had just listened to me and changed into some dry clothes the moment he got home the other night instead of lurking around the cold kitchen in them for an hour…well, if that had happened then I don't suppose he'd need anyone to make him better, now would he?"

Dean just laughs, and coughs, and says, "No, Sal, I don't suppose he would."

"Callie, honey, why don't you pack some of this stuff up and take it back to your room. Especially that disgusting jar of pennies," Mommy says.

"Yeah, what are those for anyway?" Dean asks. But I don't get to answer because Mommy does for me. In this house you get used real fast to Mommy talking over you. At least that's what Daddy says.

"She sucks on them, likes the taste of copper or something. I know, it's awful. I've tried to disinfect them at least, but…oh well, strange habits. At least she doesn't swallow them anymore."

"They have medical-inci-ninal properties." Lots of metals do. I learned that from the Discovery Channel.

"Well," she says, "it's still a disgusting habit. Now go on and take them upstairs."

I put all my cars back in the box and grab them and the jar and shove Peter and Joey under my arms. But they're too big so I have to leave them behind. And then I go, but I stomp around as I do so she'll know just how mad I am. No reason to kick me out, I was there before her anyway.

"Hey, Callie," Dean says, and I turn around. "Thanks. I feel better already." He smiles and winks and I think he does look a little better, even if his nose is still all red and runny. I scowl at Mommy on my way out and start up the stairs, but I can still hear them talking.

"What do you think you're doing," Mommy asks him. "Just where are you going?"

"Jake's at the garage, right?" he says. "I gotta talk to him."

Then I hear Dean cough and Mommy _hrumph_, and the door shut behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: Told you I'd update soon, ye of little faith. Anywhoo, just a quickie from the mind of Dean!

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**Dean's POV:**

I didn't always want to be some bad ass, ghost bustin', demon hunter type guy. I know, crazy, right? Who wouldn't want this life, chock full of adrenaline and one night stands? Hey, I get to see the country, live out of the greatest motor vehicle ever made, eat what I want, _do_ what I want, and kick ass while doing it. Plus, the whole saving lives thing is cool too. Way I figure, all the bad shit I've done, gotta even things out somehow. By now I should have enough hero points to earn me a spot next to Mother Theresa, no matter what I might have done with those two blondes in Cleveland.

Of course that's not why I do it, save people, I mean. I do it 'cause it's who I am. It's what I do. Just that simple.

But for all the perks this job has to offer, man, does it have its down sides too. Sure, digging up graves and salting and burning bones looks like fun, but at the end of the day? I smell like sweat and smoke, and if the body's not too old, burnt hair. And that smell sticks. Even after a shower. Even after two or three showers sometimes. And _talk_ about aching shoulders, man! What I wouldn't do for one of those hardcore, deep tissue Swedish massages after a day like that. I got one once from this girl in Pittsburgh, a masseuse…fanfuckingtastic.

And hey, I love the rush of hunting, I do. But you get hurt sometimes. Now, I'm no whiny little baby or anything, I'm not saying that a bump here and a bruise there would ever make me throw up my arms and say, "I quit!" Hell, I think part of the reason I do it is for the scars. Chicks dig scars.

But still, it gets old sometimes. Looking down in the shower and finding a new bright red and purple bruise right next to the ugly yellow and green one that's still tender even after a week. And those little cuts and scrapes that you never even think about, until you go to put out the line of salt before bed and it falls into the open wounds. And that's not even talking about the real injuries, the broken ribs and dislocated shoulders, and so many concussions I'm surprised I don't slur my words.

And you're not the only one who gets hurt either. Sam gets it too. So does Dad. So do people you've never met, don't really know, but, at the end of the day, can't seem to forget. It's hard work. It's dangerous work.

And I love it.

But, like I said, I didn't always want to be…this.

When I was six we had a huge all-school fire drill. It was the first one I ever had, being in school for the first time since those shitty daycares my dad used to drop us at. Our teacher told us what to expect, and what we were expected to do. Line up, single file. Follow her out to the parking lot. Stay close, with your class. Don't lose sight of your teacher. Hold your buddy's hand. What she didn't prepare us for, or me anyway, was seeing the big red fire truck parked outside with the fully decked-out firefighters next to it.

The only other time I'd seen them, and that truck, was when my mom died.

Now I would never say I got scared, because even at six I didn't really get scared, but I did sort of panic. And I did take off, running away from my class and my teacher and my buddy, who, incidentally, was a fat kid that always picked his nose. I had an idea of which way home was, and I headed for it, away from the school and the fire truck and all those people calling out after me.

But I didn't make it far. Just when I thought I was home free, almost off the parking lot, this gynormous hand came out of nowhere and grabbed my shoulder. I turned around, ready to fight, thinking it was some kind of monster, or worse, my principal. But it was a big burly-looking fireman looming over me instead. Only he wasn't scary. He was tall and strong and…safe. And he smiled at me from under his bright yellow helmet. And he talked to me like I was a real person, not just some kid. He asked me what was wrong, and when I didn't answer he just laughed. Then he said, "Yeah, I'd probably try to skip too if I thought I could get away with it." And I just stared at him.

He led me back to my class, led me, not forced me, and then he went back to work. But he shot smiles in my direction every so often and he waved goodbye when they left. I don't remember much about that night, with the fire…with Mom. But I do remember that nobody was smiling, definitely not the firefighters. But this guy did, and he seemed nice. And it hit me, all at once, that the guys at my house weren't bad or scary people. They just had nothing to smile about. And why should they? I know they tried to save my mom, probably did all they could. But they still failed. And they still felt like they failed. And the fact that these tall, strong, brave men could try so hard, do their absolute best, and still feel like failures whenever a little boy was left without a mother…well, that impressed me. Even at six.

And that's when I knew I wanted to be a fireman.

Then, in the tenth grade we had this bullshit career day thing to go to. There were booths and guest speakers and all kinds of free junk from advertising agencies and the military. In fact I think the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corp. probably had the best setups of everyone. Our tax dollars hard at work. But then I stumbled across the FBI.

I gotta admit, I watched The X-Files. Dad hated it, made fun of it, refused to allow it in his house. But then again, he was hardly ever around, so… Anyway, I'm not saying that Mulder and Scully were any kind of role models or anything, I mean, shit woman, how can you _not _believe with all that you see! And some of their cases, total bull. All those aliens? Like aliens really exist, please. But there were some cool episodes, like that one where the guy got all stretchy, awesome. Of course, I know that the real FBI wouldn't be anything like The X-Files, after all it was only those two who got assigned those cases anyway, so the likelihood of me getting in on some of that action, pretty slim. And Dad, with his whole, "always respect authority figures, but never, ever trust them" bent? No way he'd let me be a cop or an agent or anything remotely…governmenty. But that wasn't the point. My dad and that weird ass show were the last things on my mind when I started talking to the way-too-hot-to-carry-a-gun female agent.

She was short, maybe 5' 3, 5' 4, but, oh my God, was she…ahem, purely a professional. With her long dark hair, bright blue eyes, perky little…nose. She was wearing one of those suits that was totally appropriate for court or whatever, but fit every single curve perfectly. And those legs…ooh. Plus, she carried cuffs, a badge, and a gun, and had _attitude_. Long story short, she made me fall in love with her.

And if it meant being near her, or anyone like her, then I knew I wanted to join the FBI.

Then Sam graduated from high school, got a full ride to Stanford, and took Dad on, telling him that no way in hell was he gonna run his life anymore. He always wanted to have a normal life, whatever that meant. He had dreams. He had a future. Now that he was 18, he had a choice. And he knew it. And he worked it out. Even if it meant pissing Dad off, getting his ass beat, hell, getting…disowned. He still did it. He lost his home and his family and his life as he knew it, gave them all up, and chose something better. A better life, one that he actually wanted. One that he actually deserved.

Sammy stood up to Dad like I never have, like I never could. Sammy stood up for himself.

And when I was 22, well, that was when I knew I wanted to be Sam.

But the purest hope I had, the only time I really remember thinking, yeah, that's what I want to be when I grow up, was a long, long time ago. Back before Mom died and Dad started drinking and self-destructing. Way back then, in a time I barely remember, I knew I wanted to work in a garage. Not just any garage of course, my dad's. And not just for anyone, or with anyone, but for and with my dad.

I remember him taking me there when I was little, setting me up with my toy cars and trucks in the office, probably because Mom didn't want me to get too close to anything that they were working on. And I remember sneaking out of there and over to my dad's side, where I could see everything. He'd smile and pick me up and hold me over the open hood so I could get a better look. And he'd tell me all about what this car's problem was and that one. And I'd get to help with the oil changes and watch them do tire rotations. And if I was really good and could sit still long enough, he'd walk me through replacing a fan belt or checking out the manifold. Once I even sat in on a total brake overhaul, complete with new struts and everything.

And I didn't move a muscle. I was captivated…what's the word? Entranced. And I loved it all

Even after, when I was older, the only times I ever really had with my father – you know when he was my _father_ and not my drill sergeant, or my violent parole officer, or the passed out drunk I had to help into bed – were the ones spent bent over a transmission or stuck under an engine block.

So maybe I was only four at the time, and yeah, a lot has changed since then, but the first thing I ever knew I wanted to be, was a mechanic.

From the mouths of babes, right?


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: Haha, you thought I went and forgot all about this fic, didn't ya? Well, I didn't, not really anyway. So I know it's been a terribly long time since the last update, and I apologize for that. But good news! I have posted this for your reading pleasure.

So, the next chapter is going to be the last. I just have to decide who's POV to do it from. Let me know what you'd prefer. Until then, enjoy!

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**Sam POV:**

"Did I fall and hit my head or something?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

"Cause the strangest thing just happened to me."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Jake just handed me these papers, with my signature on them. And they say…well, _apparently_ I now own a garage. A fairly large, fairly expensive, full service, auto…mobile…repair…shop. And I gotta tell ya, I really don't remember buying it."

I glare down at him and… Ah ha! Stiffening of the posture, clenching of the jaw, and, yep, his eyes just got a little wider. Caught. Now we just wait for the clearing of the throat… "Ahem," yeah, "I meant to talk to you about that."

"So talk." Now it's time for the nervous…there it is, the patented I-know-I-should-feel-guilty-and-say-I'm-sorry-but-hey-I'm-Dean-and-you-know-you-love-me laugh. "Dean," I say as sternly as I can. And his mouth falls shut. "What the hell, man?"

"I was going to tell you," he says, suddenly all defensive, like he actually has a right to be.

"You were going to tell me? _After_ you forged my signature?"

"Come on, it's a good investment."

"Are you out of your mind?" I mean, seriously, a garage? Why don't you – or should I say _I_ – just buy a freaking mini-mart or a doggie salon! I don't know why he does this shit. Just to get to me? I win the lottery, like two days ago, and _he's_ already going out buying…crap. Really big and expensive crap.

I know he's watching. I can feel his eyes on me. Probably thinking up some coy little comment like, 'Jeez, Sammy, you're gonna wear a hole in the carpet if you keep pacing like that.' Or, 'Sam, calm down. I haven't seen you this excited since we stayed in a hotel that got PBS.' Jerk. I just know he's thinking that, and I know he's gonna say it, or something like it.

But instead he mutters something so low that I can't quite make it out. And it sounds sincere, not like some kind of dig under his breath, but something he wants to say and just can't. So I stop. And spin to face him. And say the only thing that comes to mind. "Huh?"

"I _said_, I bought it for me. _I_ own it. It's _my _garage. Jake sold it to _me_." What?

"But…my name…"

"Yeah, well, couldn't exactly put it in mine. Kinda suspicious, don't you think, dead man buying a shop?" Yeah, that would be kind of weird. But… "I put your name down because I wanted it to be legal, you know? Eventually somebody'd figure out that I wasn't really Hamato Yoshi." This is true.

"So why didn't you just tell me? I could have signed those papers – "

"I didn't want you to," he says, cutting me off. "I didn't want you to buy it _for_ me. It's mine. I'm just using your name is all." Yeah and my money. "And I'm gonna pay you back." Okay, creepy. "Well, not really, but you can take it out of my share."

"Your share?"

"Of the winnings. Lotto." I know what he's saying, I know what he means. But for some reason it's not all coming together in my head yet. "Yo, Sammy, ya getting me here?" And apparently he can see that because he's got this look on his face like _I_ must have some kind of look on _my _face that says I've got no freaking clue what the hell is going on.

Oh, wait, maybe that's because I don't!

"Why would you buy Jake's garage?"

"He was selling. I told you, it's a good investment."

"Bullshit."

He sits there at the kitchen table, paper splayed all out in front of him, coffee cup in hand, and stares. Just stares. As though I'm supposed to know why he'd go off and do this, this crazy, bizarre, impetuous thing. I might have some abilities, but I'm not a mind reader. "I thought," he starts, putting down the mug and ducking his head. "I thought maybe I'd try something different. For a while. Just for a little while."

"Something different?" But as soon as the words leave my mouth I realize what he means. Because there's only one paper in front of him. And it's local. And it's the comics. There's nothing circled, no weird and unexplainable incident that qualifies only as a blurb in some small town midwestern journal. There's no small town midwestern journal at all. He's not looking for anything. _Something different._

"I'm gonna run it for a bit, the shop." He gets up and refills his coffee, grabs another mug and pours some for me. But he doesn't bring it over right away. Instead he stands at the counter, with his back to me, and says, "They've been having a rough time, Jake and Sal, so I figured I'd help them out."

I know it's not true, not entirely. But I also know, can tell, that he wants me to believe it, believe that this is the reason he's staying. Oh my God, he's staying. "So…you bought it, and you're going to run it…for a while."

"Yeah, just for a while," he says returning to the table and offering me the coffee.

"So, you're staying." I mean it as a question. I meant it as one. But what does it matter how it comes out, I already know it's true.

"Yeah, well, you know, for now anyway."

I nod and sip my coffee, say nothing more, because I'm kind of getting the impression that he's said everything that needs to be said. He's staying. Here. In Nevada. For now at least. I want to ask if that means no more hunts, but I'm not sure I really want him to answer that right now. He might say no.

It was one thing leaving for college the first time around, leaving Dad and Dean. It was tough, and not just on me, and not just, I don't know, emotionally or whatever. Logistically, they had some trouble adapting, at least that's what Dean said the first time he called.

They had been dealing with some pissed off spirit and apparently Dad went to the cemetery where he _thought_ the guy was buried while Dean went back to the haunted house to make sure it was gone after the salting and burning. But Dad got the wrong body and the ghost wasn't really gone, and it came up on Dean and busted him up pretty bad. He laughed about it on the phone a couple weeks later when he finally called. Said it was his own fault, he hadn't been paying close enough attention. Truth is, he'd been so used to my being there – ready with a shotgun full of rock salt, always watching his back – that he didn't even think to watch his own.

And that was then, when they had each other still. Yeah, it was an adjustment, but really, they managed. Now? Now Dad's off getting his life together, or trying to. And I'm heading back to Stanford. And the idea of Dean being left behind, left alone…it's never been a pleasant one regardless. Because I know how much he loves us and relies on us, and, yeah, in a lot of ways, really needs us. But I know he'll be okay. He has to be.

He's the strongest person I know.

That said, the thought of him hunting on his own scares the living crap out of me. I know he's done jobs here and there by himself, but they were always ones Dad sent him on. They were ones Dad knew he could handle. Dean doesn't always have that same radar, that ability to figure out when something might be too much and then back away. He's just not like that. So I knew that by leaving I was running the risk of losing my brother forever. Because it would only be a matter of time before he got in over his head.

And I was going to tell him not to do that. I was going to say, 'Dean, man, think before you act. Don't just go into anything, guns blazing, hoping for the best.' And I was going to suggest that maybe we could still work together sometimes, not often, but sometimes, on things that he might really need an extra set of hands for. Even though a big part of me never wants to touch another gun again. Or speak Latin. Or have to buy salt in bulk. I was going to tell him to come to me if he came across something he couldn't handle on his own. And I was going to pray every night that he'd be able to figure out what those things might be.

I was going to say all of that because, honestly, I never thought my brother would stop hunting. I only ever wished it.

"Sammy?"

I look up and see him sitting in front of me, looking at me in that way that tells me I've been staring out into space for a while, long enough for him to be concerned. "Yeah?"

He shrugs his shoulders and says, "It's not a forever kind of thing. Staying here…it's just temporary."

"Yeah," I say, holding back a smile, "just for now."

"Yeah," he says, looking like he's trying to do the same, "just for a while."


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: Well, this is it. I'm not sure how I feel about it, if it's really good enough to cap things off. But it is what it is. I think I covered all of the challenges, or at least the ones posted at the time of this story's conception. But could you find them all? Anyway, here it is. Let me know what you think!

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**Dean's POV:**

There's a word for it: survivor's guilt. Well, I guess that's really a phrase, not a word, but it's what I feel all the same. It's what keeps me going, always on my toes, always looking for that next hunt. It's the one thing I can always count on to get me out of bed in the morning, or to keep me awake while I'm driving out to the next dangerous destination. Because I just can't handle the guilt, the what-if. What if I tried a little harder? Or moved a little faster? Or did…something different? What if?

But the guilt comes when I stop with the what-ifs and move on to the real important question. Why not? Why didn't I try a little harder, move a little faster? Why didn't I give it my all? Why didn't I put myself on the line, wholeheartedly? Why didn't I do _whatever it takes_ to save that person's life?

And I know the answer. Because if I had, I might have been the one to die.

Soldier's training. Never leave a man behind. You are one with your comrades, each indispensable, each also, on his own, unnecessary. It's the cause that counts, not the individual life. You're just part of the whole.

So if no one's life is more important than my own, why should mine be spared? Why should I try so hard to make sure it is? Why should I live – let myself live – at the cost of others?

Sammy always had a different way of looking at hunting. He never could play by Dad's military rules, always questioning everything. He said…what did he call it? Cost benefit analysis. He said that you had to weigh the potential risk against the potential gain to figure out if it was worth doing or not.

For Dad the answer was always simple. Do it. People need our help. They aren't able to save themselves, only we can do that. And I know where it comes from, that idea that these people, whoever they are, really _need_ us. We were them once. We were regular, normal people who absolutely could not have survived without help from…well, someone like us. And we didn't get that help. And, in a way, we didn't survive.

Dad never really cared if he died going after something. Why should he? He was dead already.

But as much as Sam and I were never really _alive_ after Mom died, we weren't really dead either. So maybe that's why we cared a little bit more about saving our own hides. And I do care. I know Sammy thinks I totally buy into Dad's 'shoot first, ask questions later, whatever it takes' method, but I don't. Not always.

I don't know what I'm saying really. I know that…I know that saving people is a good thing to do. It's what I was taught to do. It's what I was told was always my purpose in life to do. But sometimes, no matter how _right_ it feels to save someone, it also kind of feels _wrong_ for me to be the one to do it. Because no matter what I was raised to believe, I just can't stop thinking that maybe my life is actually worth something. Maybe I do deserve more than just a purpose.

Like Sam. This…gift or whatever, this psychic thing he has? He must have it for some sort of reason. I know he knows that. And I know it scares the crap out of him, that he has a purpose in this life and it's not one he chose himself. But that's the thing about Sammy, he won't let anybody push him around, not even the universe. So he gets this shinning thing and he knows he's gonna have to do something with it at some point, but until he gets to that point, damn if he's gonna let that run his life.

That's the thing with my little brother. He may have a _purpose_, but he also has a _life_. And as much as I hate to admit it, because it does feel like I'm turning my back on everything – those people, my training, my Dad, even my Mom – I want that too.

At least I think I do.

But here I am, sitting at the airport, waiting for them to call out Sam's flight for boarding, waiting for my brother to leave me again, this time for good. And all I can really think about is how much I want to keep on hunting. With him.

"You know," I say, but then stop, shake my head. I'm not sure how long we've been here, sitting side by side in these pale plastic chairs, but I do know that neither one of us have said anything since we sat. And as soon as I hear my voice, I know why. Because it sounds dry and weak. And wrong. Anything that's said right now would just be wrong.

He gives me a weird look, tilts his head and scrunches up his eyebrows like a confused puppy, and says, "Yeah?"

So I clear my throat, figure, 'what the hell?' If nothing I say is gonna be right anyway, I might as well just spit it out. And what I want to say is, '_We really did make a good team._' And, '_I had fun, even when we were doing things that probably shouldn't have been fun._'

And, '_I love you and I'm really gonna miss you, man_.'

But what comes out is, "I just wanted to know…Sam," and I clear my throat again, look away for just a sec, then back. "Did you ever know that you're my hero?"

It takes him a minute, but finally I get a, "What?"

"Yeah, man." I straighten up and look him right in the eye. "You're everything I wish I could be."

"Dean…"

Putting my hand on his shoulder I say, so sincerely even I almost buy it, "I can fly higher than an eagle, cause you are the wind beneath my wings."

And…scene. Silence. Oh, he gets it all right. He just doesn't know how to respond.

So I do the only thing I can do, the only thing it occurs to me to do. I stand up and belt it out. "Fly…fly…fly away, you let me fly so high!" And the look on his face!

"Dean!" He grabs a hold of my arm and yanks me back into the seat, hard.

"Dude," I say, rubbing the spot where I'm sure I'll have finger shaped bruises later.

"You're such an idiot," he mumbles. His eyes dance around like he's trying to see if anyone's looking at us, which, yeah, a few people are. But to put that shade of red on Sammy's cheeks….totally worth it.

It only takes a chuckle from me to get him to nearly break down in laughter, and before I know it even more people are staring. But so what?

Then the laughter stops. Because we hear his boarding call.

"So," he says looking down, still smiling, then, suddenly, not. "I guess that's me."

"Yep," I say and we both stand.

"Hey, you be careful with that shop. Make sure you pay all the bills on time and everything."

"Dude, I'm not a complete moron."

"Yeah, well, just remember it's in my name and I don't need you sullying my credit." Ass. But I let it go cause I know he's only joking. Mostly.

The voice on the loudspeaker announces his flight again. He has to go. I clap him on the shoulder and say, "Call me when you get in. I want to be sure no crazy ass demon takes down your plane."

"Yeah, that would suck." He nods and I start to pull my hand away. But then…I can't. And instead of letting go and letting him walk away and on that plane and out of my life, I clench my fingers tight around his shoulder, move them up to the back of his neck, and pull him in.

I hold him tight. Because I can't let go. I don't want to let go.

But then I hear, "_Final boarding, Flight 817 to Palo Alto_," and my grip goes slack.

I _have _to let go.

He doesn't say anything at first, just hoists his bag up and nods his head. Then, "I'll call you," quiet and strangled, just before he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back. And I'm glad.

So I stand there for a minute, just a minute, before everything comes back, the noise of the people passing by and the loudspeaker and little kids crying. And I know there's no point in staying, so I head for the car.

He'll be okay. That's what I keep telling myself. Sammy's always okay.

It's not 'til I get to the car and fall into the seat, shut myself in, that I realize what I'm saying, or thinking. Or, more importantly, _not_ saying or thinking. _I'm_ gonna be okay.

I know it. I don't know how, but I just know it. No matter what happens, if I hate running the garage and decide to sell inside of a month. If I get all shifty and restless and feel the pull of the road, and the hunt. If I _never_ feel the pull of the road and the hunt, ever again. If I talk to Sammy everyday, or once a week, or even once a year. Even I don't see him, or my dad, until their faces have changed so much that I can barely recognize them. No matter what, I'm gonna be okay.

My purpose has always been to take care of others. Sammy. Dad. Strangers who don't have a clue about anything. But my life? I don't know yet what that's gonna be. I just know that for once, I'm gonna take care of me.

At least for now.


End file.
